
v\ 


A, 

>' V c 

^ o' 

O < Xi. 

'* "^ ^'' '' 7 ^ «' -O^ '^°» *** 0 N 0 ’ 

^ oi^' ^ ^\.?CA ■= 'A 

> ■/>„ „ t-r'^ 



xO°^. 






: A 


r^ ^ ‘ti ^> -4 O > 

^ 0 N C . ^ ' a\ 

<>* C o 

< o cr 



'i ,J> (_y <» -- 

^ '^O ^ ^ '^^■'Sj 

o 4 ^ d 


'V- 



‘ rs' ^h & > o' 

0 ^ S ^ ' ' ' /. ^o . \> 


r> 

o 

21 



<i- 

o 

7- 

C 

-fe 

■#' 


c 



\.S‘ ^ 

kv' ^r 


\ V 

.. -V ■i> o 
s’ <\ 




i. l¥ 5^" 

A ^ ^ O V - y 

<K ^ k'^ .0 

4 o ^ ^ /I Ay*- 

-1 (7^ o cSSX' • . 


*^- A c 


> \ V 'ZfC. ■i- 

• '^. »- 

v'' » ^ ^ 

^ « a - % 



.A “^o', \ -^ 4 ^ 

csS>x\A'^ ^ a'^ -'^ 'p 

' ^ vO c> *" 

"-■ *'' A V'^ . 

tf ^ ^ ^ « 

A. A' 




oS ' 


f d - 

!A 


V O 



<, A' ■•>*, ^ ‘'^C 

/V t> *A 

^ <> -ti ^ .\ v'fti '/-* A 

. ^ a'^ v^' ^ ^ rO^ t 

■>:>, A\ i*^/r//.- - 


A ^ 

iV </», 


A'’ ' 4 ^, ° 


s' ,A 



,,0’^ c “ ^ '-' c, '*'''', a''''' v’ '■' ' ^ 




3 'S, -T. 

jO' s> 0 N 

n^ s, ^ ' /f C‘ 

*■ ^ 

■ : ■s'^ 





•" ocr 

"> ■ ^o'^ -v V>\-^ * “^ ^ 

gFiMZ/Xy^ .>.<;■ o 


</> 



: ^0^ 



^ ^ .0 K 0 ^ 

V' ^ « A 

'/'h \ 7- ^ 

" \ y </^ 


\G o < X4. ^ 

A O •tt ^ V 

'•>“,>-.X'’-"’v'"^’-”' 

- ' -- ' % ,# -Wa'. 



V ,^' 


* X 

cO" ““ .# v»' 

. \*. *y* 


#’ "x " V^ 

^ ^a £> -A a V 
'?/, ^ 0 . ). ■*■ 





X 


•C-. ■'*»'' ,A 




• '^o o'' 

= X 7'^ 

^ <p- (a'A '^V \\> /K ^ 

^ ’> * 'c'^ ^ 

^ *=>--,f.7\6»\; -fi 

0 N C , -Ce. ,*0^ 



t-°’ 

•v OK/i ! / / yry y> 

° i?' ^ 

^ VJ 

'^= o^-n. 

^ ’^WNTos^ ^ ^ 

\ y <, O I /. 

y v- ^ * -, 

‘ v> # ^ .s 







y /o s c , " ' . . ^ V " ' ^ ^ 





x^X 


^ X. * ^ 

% ‘' )r'7.^ A Ap '^°X* D N 0 ’ X » I '* ' A'^' 

X ’ ' o' X \>\. ^ * 0 . aO^ o' ”' ' 

A^' V , . . . • . ,o ' 

^ oS 7 ° 

^ * S ^2 z * 

A' cP '^' 

X-' ,0. c 



2\V 




. S’ 

"V 












\ 


I 









Irish Pastorals 


BY 

Shan F. BtjhiJock 



MCCLURE, Phillips & 09 

NEW YORK 
M C M I 


« 


the LIBRAKV 

CONGRESS, 

Two C’opiw Received 

SEP. 9 1901 

^)OPVRIQHT ENTRY 

r /if/i 

1 COPY S. 








<b 




Copyright, 1900, by S. S. McClure Co. 
1901, BY McClure, Phillips & Co. 


« c c < c 

C • ’ f , « • 

C* * V « • * 

( « f C f. c 

* ( c • c 


, • * , «■ «> e 

♦ « • • • 

• • • « ♦ 

«■ • • • • • 


c • • • « • 

• • • <» 

• • • • • * 

• « 4. > 

• • • • * • 




A TABLE OF THE CONTENTS 


PAGE 


I. 

The Planters 


• 

• 

• 


. 7 

II. 

The Turf-Cutters 


• 

• 

% 

• 

. 43 

III. 

The Mowers . 


• 

• 

• 

• 

. 65 

IV. 

The Haymakers . 




• 

• 

CO 

V. 

The Reapers 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 143 

VI. 

The Diggers 

• 

• 

• 

# 

• 

. 185 

VII. 

The Herd 

• 

• 


• 

• 

. 223 

VIII. 

Spotty 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

. 255 

IX. 

The Brothers 



• 

f 

• 

. 283 


Of - ^7 Y 



THE PLANTERS 





/ 


0 




# 








,• A. 




' » . 


,v. 





I 


s 


s • 

; I 

< 


t 


« 


1 




I 


L izzie DOLAN was in bad hnmonr; and so, more 
than once that morning, Hughy Eitch and Peter 
Jarmin had told each other. She looked sour, 
they thought, nipped, too old for her years; her tongue 
had an edge ; a pig with six legs wouldn’t make her laugh ; 
when you spoke she eyed you with an eye like a hawk’s, 
and answered as if you were a beggar with a meal bag; 
she wasn’t herself at all, they said, not the least bit. 

What ailed her? Hughy and Peter wondered. Had 
she slept on nettles? Had she got out o’ bed wrong side? 
Had the ould mother bothered her? Was she in trouble 
of any kind? Was the work too much for her? asked 
Hughy of Peter, at last, and resting on his spade glanced 
round at Lizzie, as, bending low, she went dropping seed- 
cuts adown the long strip of manure that ran straight 
for Emo valley. Was the work too much for her? asked 
Hughy and let his eyes rest steadily upon her. All woe- 
ful and bedraggled she looked. Her skirt was bunched 
about her waist ; a sack-cloth apron (a prasheen, so called) 
bulging with seed-cuts swung against her knees; she wore 
an old jacket, out at elbows and fastened at the neck with 
a brass brooch, hob-nailed boots, a black quilted petti- 
coat and a tweed cap; her hair was in wisps, her face 
was wind-chapped and her wrists and hands; she looked 
pinched, Hughy thought, hungry, cheerless. 

I wonder now,” said he, turning again to his furrow 


10 


lEISH PASTOEALS 


and driving his spade firmly into the stiff lea, if it’s 
that’d be ailin’ her? I wonder? ” 

What? ” asked Peter, and hung for a moment on 
his spade-shaft. What? ” asked he. 

Why that the work’d be too much for her,” answered 
Hughy, turning a sod and breaking it across the ridge. 

It’s hard on the back, an’ it’s wearisome .... an’ 
sure the weather’s ojus bitter.” 

Peter sniffed disdainfully, spat on his hands, and drove 
hard with his foot. He was a small man of about thirty- 
seven, dark, lean, ugly, of none too cheerful an aspect; 
about as much like his fellow planter as a potato is like a 
turnip. 

‘‘ Ach,” said he, quit wi’ ye ! Hard on the back, 
indeed! I wonder what her back was made for? I won- 
der what easier work you’d find for the likes of her nor 
what she’s at? Hard on the back! Haw; it’s not that,” 
said Peter, with a wag of his head. It’s not that. She 
knew what was before her when she agreed to come; right 
well she knew. Says I to her: ^ Hughy Pitch an’ meself 
have shares in a piece o’ conacre over Emo way; is it 
yourself agrees to cut seed for us, an’ spread the manure, 
an’ all the rest, if we give you an’ the mother a hand at 
the turf an’ another at the harvestin’? Will ye do that? ’ 
says I. ^ I will,’ says she; an’ the bargain was struck. 
Hard on the back, indeed,” Peter went on with a sniff; 

an’ a powerful soft job it’ll be drivin’ this danged 
spade through stiff lea from sunrise to sunset. Aw, yis, 
indeed! ” 

It’s true,” said Hughy. I wouldn’t deny it.” 

Haw, it’s not to be denied, so it’s not. People must 


THE PLANTEKS 


11 


ate; and praties must grow; and people must work. 
There’s for ye.” 

True,” answered Hughy again. True for ye.” 

Every time I turn me spade and clout a sod over 
the eye o’ one o’ them boy-os,” Peter continued, look- 
ing at one of the seed-cuts that lay on the ridge below 
him, there’s another mouthful on its way to the pot 
come next winter — if so be the divil doesn’t set his 
cloots on the bit o’ conacre and scatter the blight 
over it.” 

Hughy straightened his long back, rested hands on 
spade-head and breast on hands ; and with a smile playing 
at the corners of his slow good-natured eyes, looked 
sideways at Peter. 

Ye think it’s the divil, then, does these things? ” said 
he. Sends the blight, an’ the rot, an’ all that?” 

^^An’ who else’d send them?” returned Peter, look- 
ing up at his partner much as a sparrow looks at the sky. 

Why, to be sure it is. An’ what the blazes does it 
matter, anyway, who sends them? They come; an’ that’s 
enough for me. If that pratie there rots, I blame the 
divil; if it breeds the full o’ me hat, I thank the Lord for 
it. There’s how I’ll be seein’ things.” 

Hughy shifted his feet; looked across the field, sought 
Emo hill and the hills beyond Thrasna river with a slow 
thoughtful gaze; glanced over his shoulder at Lizzie and 
went on delving. 

Ay, I know. Ye talk like a school-master 

An’ it’s the ould boy himself ye’d be blamin’, now,” asked 
Hughy, for that east wind that’s blowin’ razors at us 
through the hedge? Would that be it, Peter? ” 


12 


IRISH PASTORALS 


I’d be tninkin’ so/’ came across the ridge. 

An’ himself, too, sends the hard winter, an’ the hun- 
ger, an’ keeps the spring back, and hides the sun away 
somewhere behind the clouds? Would ye be thinkin’ 
that, Peter? ” 

'' Pd not be denyin’ it.” 

Aw yis,” drawled Hughy; aw yis. An’ you’d be 
of opinion, mebbe, that he had somethin’ to do wi’ keepin’ 
women out drudgin’ in a day that’s fit to blow holes in 
a snipe? Eh, Peter? ” 

Ah, there ye are again,” snapped Peter; there ye 
are again wi’ your gossoon’s bleather! Didn’t I tell ye? 
Didn’t I say it was a bargain? Didn’t I?” Peter 
straightened himself and shot out an arm. An’ what 
the blazes worse off is she, I ax ye again, nor you or 
me? Hasn’t she clothes on her? Hasn’t she as much 
to ate and drink? Does all the wind come flutterin’ at 
her skirts, d’ye imagine? Has she as much to do, or as 
hard? Answer me, will ye?” 

She’s a woman,” answered Hughy. 

Aw, a woman.” Peter sniffed. A woman! Sure 
I forgot. Aw, ’deed I did. An’ you’re a man. Aw, yis. 
I was forgettin’ that too. Mebbe you’d like to change 
places, Hughy. Or mebbe you’d like to do her work as 
well as your own? ” 

Naw. It’s not that .... I’m just pityin’ the 
crature.” 

I know.” Peter nicked out a sod. I know. Well, 
that’s your affair. For me — well, I dunno. God knows 
I often pity meself. Look at me elbow stickin’ through 
the ould coat. Look at the bones cuttin’ through me 


THE PLANTEES 


13 


skin. How often does the inside o^ me know what full 
means? How long would it be since I smoked a whole 
ounce o’ tobacco inside o’ one blessed week? .... Aw, 
yis. You pity the crature. An’ so do I. But between 
herself and me there’s about as much to choose as be- 
tween one side o’ the spade an’ t’other. Jist as much: 
an’ for all I can see, it’s poor Peter Jarmin — God love 
him — that has the worst o’ the deal.” 

Hughy did not answer. The partners worked on for 
a while; then said Peter: 

Suppose ye ax her, Hughy, what’d be troublin’ 
her?” 

I’d — I’d be fearin’, Peter. Mebbe she’d take it ill.” 

Phat, man! She wouldn’t ate ye. Sure hard words 
’ll not break your neck.” 

Naw.” Hughy looked back at Lizzie. That’s true, 
sure enough.” He raised a hand to his mouth and moved 
as if to shout; hesitated; leant a while on his spade; 
raised hand again and called: Hoi-i-i, Lizzie.” 

One arm akimbo and the other weighed with her bulg- 
ing prasheeUy Lizzie was gazing dolefully across Emo 
bog; now, at sound of Hughy’s call, she turned, looked 
at him a moment, and without answering stooped to 
her work. Again came the call; and again, in a little 
while: Uoi-i-iy Lizzie.” She stood upright and turned 
towards the planters. 

Well, what is it? ” 

Haven’t ye had enough o’ yourself out there? ” an- 
swered Hughy. Come up here an’ give us a crack.” 

Ach, g’ luck,” cried Lizzie and stooped. Crack, 
indeed ! ” 


14 


lEISH PASTOKALS 


Come on wi’ ye/’ persisted Hughy. AVe’re as lone- 
some, the two of us, as cranes on a tree. Come on now.” 
Lizzie did not answer. Ach, don’t be so stubborn. 

Come on wi’ ye, woman alive That’s right,” 

said Hughy, drawing forth his pipe, as Lizzie turned and 
came tramping over the grass and between the manure 
heaps towards him. That’s right. Sakes alive, wom- 
an, you’re as hard to bring from the work as an ass from 
a carrot bed.” 

Peter chuckled over his spade-head. Lizzie stopped. 
I’ll be thankin’ ye, Hughy Fitch,” said she. Is it 
for the compliment ye called me? ” 

Hughy reddened; scratched his ear; moved his feet. 
Och now,” said he; och now! .... Ah, I’ll be 
meanin’ nothin’, Lizzie. Ah, no. Sure, there was no 

harm. Ah, no. Sure I only wanted to say ” 

Ach, quit wi’ ye,” Peter broke in. Sure you’ve as 
many excuses as if you’d ate her dinner. Don’t we know 
ye didn’t mean anythin’ .... An’ how’s yourself, Liz- 
zie, machree ? ” Peter pulled out his pipe and softly be- 
gan tapping its bowl upon his palm. Faith, an’ it’s not 
over bright you’re lookin’ this mornin’, now. What’s 
up wi’ ye? ” 

Nothin’s up, Peter Jarmin. Ye called me?” said 
Lizzie, and looked at Hughy. 

Now I wouldn’t be strivin’ too hard,” Peter went on, 
nor gave Hughy chance for a word. Ye know the 
wind’s powerful keen, an’ there might be a frost the 
night; an’ if so be ye got too far ahead of us, it’s only 

winded the sets’d be, an’ ” 

Thank ye for nothin’, Peter Jarmin. Ye called 


THE PLANTEKS 


15 


me? said Lizzie again, and not so mucli as gave Peter 
the blink of an eye as she looked at Hughy. 

Aw, I did/^ Slowly Hughy made answer, leisurely 
he sat him down on the edge of a ridge. Twas Peter 
there put it in me head. Says he ’’ 

I see,’’ Lizzie broke in, with a vicious tap of her foot 
and a scornful toss of the head. I know. ’Twas Peter 
put it in your head, indeed ! ” She turned to go. Well 
I’m obliged to the both o’ ye — an’ I say that to you, 
Peter Jarmin, first of all.” 

But, Lizzie ! ” Hughy looked up, wonderment 
quick on his great moon face. I didn’t — I — ^What in 
glory ? ” 

Ah, be quiet wi’ ye,” snapped Peter over his 
shoulder; be quiet an’ light your wits instead o’ your 

pipe Aisy, Lizzie; aisy, ye girl ye. Now, don’t 

go; don’t. Troth an’ soul we’d be glad o’ your company, 
for it’s dull we are as bog water. Come back an’ I’ll 
tell ye a story. Och, do ! ” 

But Peter’s wheedling availed nothing. Slowly Liz- 
zie walked on, head back, eyes fixed straight before her; 
nor stopped even when a heavy foot came hurrying 
after and a hand was laid on her shoulder. 

Let me go, Peter J armin,” cried she. How dare 
ye, sir! ” She wheeled about; then drew back a step and 
dropped her eyes. ‘‘ Aw, it’s you, is it? ” she said. It’s 
you ? ” 

Ay, answered Hughy. It’s me. What, in glory, 
ails ye, Lizzie? Why, you’d think — I — I was tryin’ to 
drive ye away, that quick ye are to turn tail. Come back 
wi’ ye, now. Come back or, be the king. I’ll shake ye! ” 


16 


IKISH PASTOEALS 


Lizzie kicked at a clod. Why didn’t ye keep me 
when I was there? ” 

Keep ye? Lord knows, woman, one’d think ye 
were a child! Didn’t I ask ye to come? Wasn’t I 
pityin’ ye out there in the cowld? Didn’t I want ye 
to stay? ” 

^^Did ye now? .... Sure I thought it was Peter.” 

’Twas meself.” Hughy took her by the arm. Back 
ye come.” 

Amn’t I as well where I am? ” said Lizzie, with a 
twinkle in her eye. 

ISTaw. Back ye come.” 

Ye think three’ll be better company nor two? ” said 
Lizzie, turning and smiling. 

I think nothin’. Back ye come.” 

Hughy stood Lizzie in front of Peter, spilled the con- 
tents of her prasheen upon the grass, brouglit an empty 
sack across from the hedge and spread it behind her. 

Kow rest yourself,” said he, and sat him down once 
more; an’ no more o’ your capers.” Lizzie sat down 
upon the sack, gathered up her knees and clasped them 
with both hands. Sure that was no way at all to be 
treatin’ us — no way at all. You’d think we had offended 

ye — ^ye would so Ha’ we offended ye? ” Hughy 

asked. Because ” He stopped. Because ” 

Just so,” said Peter, with a chuckle. BecauseJ^ 

Ah, quit your nonsense, Hughy,” cried Lizzie from 
the sack. Offended me? Arrahhow? Kaw. It’s not 
that — it’s not that at all. ” 

Ay? ” said Hughy and Peter in a breath. Ay? ” 


THE PLANTEES 


17 

Naw, it’s not that It’s just ivery thing. 

Ay? ” came again. Ay, now? ” 

I feel this mornin’,” Lizzie went on, her eyes fixed 
on the dour greyness of the sky, as if me grave was 
open. I couldn’t laugh if ye paid me for it. I can do 
nothin’ right. If I drop a set it’s sure to fall wrong; it’s 
Heaven’s mercy I didn’t cut me thumb off long ago wi’ 
the seed-knife, or drive the grape through me foot. I’m 
all wrong; an’, God knows, I feel as cross as fifty cats in 
a sack.” 

Ay? ” Peter laid his spade along the ridge and sat 
down upon it. Well, we were say in’ ye didn’t look 
yourself this mornin’, Lizzie. Yis, we were.” 

I can’t return the compliment, Peter Jarmin,” re- 
turned Lizzie, with a flash of her dark eyes; for you’re 
just the same as ye always are, just as ... . Niver 
mind. Mebbe if I’m not meself ” — she glanced at Hughy 
— I’m not without reason. Aw, no. It isn’t for nothin’ 
ivery cow hangs a tail behind her, so it isn’t.” 

It’s truth,” answered Peter, and elbows on knees and 
chin between his palms looked hard and critically at the 
girl. It’s truth.” 

Hughy crossed his legs, leant sideways on an elbow, 
took pipe from lips and narrowly looked at it ; then raised 
his eyes. An’ what’d be the cause o’ you havin’ a tail, 
now,” said he. 

Peter laughed. Hughy’s face grew redder. I’m 
usin’ your own words, Lizzie,” he went on hurriedly. I 
know what you mean; an’ you know what I mean; 
an’ ” 

Eightly I do, Hughy,” said Lizzie and gave him the 


18 


lEISH PASTOEALS 


benefit of her eyes; rightly I know, an’ them that laugh 
has little else to do. But sure — but sure .... Aw,” 
cried she, with a sudden sound of wailing, surely the 
Lord never made a worse day nor this. It’s woeful. Look 
at the sky that dreary an’ angry-lookin’, an’ it that 
low ye could touch it with a pole. Look at the cowld, 
grey, hungry appearance there’s iverywhere. Look at the 
fields as dead as the road, an’ the bare hedges, an’ the 
starvin’ trees. An’ that wind,” shivered Lizzie inside her 
fiimsy iacket, sure it’s enough to cut holes in ve. Ah 
Lord, Lord! ” 

The planters sat looking, now at Lizzie, now up and 
down the bleak potato field, now across the cowering hills, 
now up at the pitiless sky: it was truth, thought they, 
this that Lizzie had said; never had they seen a sorrier 
day, never seen old Ireland more nakedly God-forsaken. 

It’s truth,” said Peter, with a wag of his head. Ay, 
it is so,” Hughy chimed in and puckered his brow; 
'' it is so.” 

You’d think,” Lizzie went on, that niver again 
could the sun shine, or the sky show its face. Sure it’s 
woeful. It’s worse nor frost an’ snow; it’s worse nor 
the floods. I can stand most things ; but a day like that 
— ugh!” shivered the girl again; ^^it’s miserable. I 
could just die.” 

The men sat staring at her. She was in very queer 
humour, they thought; was like a sick child, with her 
peevishness and her humours. Never before had they 
seen Lizzie Dolan just like that. 

Yis; it’s bad I allow.” Peter looked round. Still, 
there’s niver a bad but there’s a worse behind it.” 


THE PLANTERS 


19 


Aw, just so,’’ assented Hugliy, with his eyes on Liz- 
zie’s face. Just so.” 

Worse! ” Lizzie flung out a hand. Worse, ye say? 
An’ how? How could things be worse? Would we be 
worse if we were flat in our graves? Look at us here like 
snipes in a ditch, shiverin’ an’ famished; look at the sky, 
an’ the fields, an’ — Ah, dear Lord, will the spring niver 
come; will it niveVy niver come? ” 

It will, Lizzie agra,^^ answered Peter; as sure as 
gun’s iron it will. It’ll take us all of a sudden just like 
a smack from a blackthorn — an’ then where’ll your mis- 
ery an’ your graves be? Ay, indeed. Out like a nine 
days’ lamb you’ll be, friskin’ yourself in the sunshine. 
Aw, ay.” 

Ah, quit your bleather, Peter Jarmin,” answered Liz- 
zie. You an’ your friskin’! Just as if ’twas in short 
clothes I was, an’ me with nothin’ better to think of but 
sportin’ in the fields. ’Deed, ay! A lot o’ friskin’ poor 
me’ll get, spring or no spring — a danged lot! Will I be 
any beter off then nor I am now, I’m askin’ ye, Peter 
Jarmin? ” 

Och, ye might. Who knows? Sure it’s wonderful 
the way things change. Round goes the wind an’ away 
goes the rain.” 

Ay, it does. An’ a lot o’ chance there is o’ the wind 
changin’ for the likes o’ me.” Bitterly Lizzie spoke and 
involuntarily glanced at Hughy, as leaning forward he 
sat peering steadily into her eyes. 

Och, ye never know,” said Peter in his sage 
way. Anyway, sure it might be as well to wait 
an’ see.” 


20 


IRISH PASTORALS 


Lizzie tossed her head. Ah, it’s aisy to talk/’ said 
she peevishly; mighty aisy. What can you know; 
Peter Jarmin, you or Hughy? You’re your own mas- 
ters the both o’ ye.” 

Are we, faith ! ” Peter screwed up his lips and 
laughed. 

Yis ye are/’ cried Lizzie. Ye can’t do as ye like, 
but ye can do somethin’. If ye wanted to start to Amer- 
iky the morrow, ye could sell your trifles an’ start. If 
ye .... I wish to God I could start,” said Lizzie. I 
wish it wi’ all me heart.” 

Aw! ” Peter and Hughy spoke in a breath. Aw, 
now! ” 

I’m tired of this hand to mouth, dog in the pot kind 
o’ life,” Lizzie went on quickly. I’m sick of it. Look 
at the two of us, the ould mother an’ meself , over yonder 
all be ourselves, niver knowin’ where the bit’s to come 
from, or the rag for our backs, or how long the roof’ll 
be over us. Look at her, a widdy woman, strivin’ to keep 
the bit o’ land, strugglin’ to pay the rent wi’ pounds o’ 
butter an’ dozens of eggs an’ odd flocks o’ ducks an’ tur- 
keys. Look at her failin’ in health, an’ no one to help 
her much, wi’ meself knittin’ socks all the day an’ sprig- 
gin’ me eyes out all the night; an’ — Ah, what’s the use 
o’ talkin’? It’s a dog’s life, I say, a dog’s! The two o’ 
ye know nothin’ about it. Women! Ah, God help the 
poor women, say I,” cried Lizzie, and from her cheek 
wiped off a bitter tear. 

Peter looked at his boots and found never a word to 
say. He was beginning to pity the girl. What she said 
was true enough. She had her troubles like all else. It 


THE PLANTEES 


21 


was a shame that such things should be. Still, thought 
he with a shake of his head; still 

She’s as cross as the divil,” cried Lizzie. She’s al- 
ways naggin’ at me. She says I’m lazy, an’ stubborn, an’ 
peevish. She made the breakfast choke in me throat this 
mornin’ wi’ her tonguin’. I do me best,” cried the girl; 

I do me best; an’ I know she’s troubled. But .... 
Aw, I wish to God I could get away somewhere. From 
me heart I do.” 

Hughy sat rubbing a crumb of tobacco round and 
round between his palms, his penknife sticking out be- 
tween thumb and forefinger, pipe head downward in his 
mouth. His heart was sore for the girl. He wished he 
could help the crature. He wished he could make life 
easier for her, could take some of the trouble from her. 
His heart was sore for her — but what could he do? He 
liked her well. She was a bright, good-hearted, decent 
girl. It was God’s pity of her .... He minded when 
he used to sit before the fire with Lizzie at his side. They 
were bright days those. Ay. But — but times got bad ; 
her mother’s tongue and temper were hard to bear: some- 
how he had quit sitting with Lizzie before the fire 

Ah, ’twas a pity of the crature, he thought, and crammed 
the tobacco into his pipe bowl; ’twas a powerful pity: but 
— but what could he do? He looked again at Lizzie; 
met her eyes; reddened; looked down; in a while dared 
another glance and found her gathering the scattered 
seed-cuts into her prasJceen. He rose hurriedly and 
crossed the ridge. 

Aisy,” said he. Aisy, till I help ye, Lizzie.” He 
stooped; and as he did so Peter knelt over and gathered 


22 


lEISH PASTOEALS 


a double handful of the cuts. Aisy/’ said Peter; aisy 
now, ye girl ye.’’ 

But already Lizzie had turned away. Pm thankful 
to ye both,” said she over her shoulder; but sure I’m 
loth to be troublin’ ye.” And off stepped Lizzie. 

Peter squatted on his heels; Hughy rested hands on 
knees and stood looking after her. They saw her reach 
the fire which burned beside the lane hedge, saw her sit 
down on a pile of turf and begin slicing potatoes into 
seed-cuts: then they looked at each other, and without 
a word turned to their spades. 

Ay,” said Peter as he spat on his hands. Aw, 
just so.” 

Yis,” said Hughy and put away his pipe. 

A while passed; then said Peter again: 

‘‘ I’m thinkin’ I know now what’d be ailin’ her.” 

Ay,” answered Hughy in his slow way; mebbe ye 
do, Peter.” 

And after that, till dinner-time had come, no word 
passed between the planters. 


II 

There’s no clock in the sky the day,” Peter said, 
looking up as if in search of the sun; ‘‘ but be the feel o’ 
things it must be dinner-time. Come away, Hughy.” 
And Peter set off towards the fire. 

Hughy finished off the end of a ridge; threw his spade 
into the furrow, clasped hands behind his back, and slowly 
followed Peter. Presently he turned ; let his eyes wander 


THE PLANTEKS 


23 


over the ridges and rest upon a bedraggled figure that 
swayed to and fro among the manure heaps; grunted and 
turned; turned again and muttered; without more ado 
began retracing his steps. 

^^It’s the diviFs wofk for a woman/’ he mumbled as he 
went; then, coming closer to the figure, raised his voice. 

It’s dinner-time,” said he; there or thereabouts.” 

Is it? ” 

Yis. I— I thought I’d tell ye.” 

I’m obliged to ye.” 

Hughy knitted his brow, pocketed his hands; let his 
weight rest now on this foot now on that as stolidly he 
stood looking at the girl. 

But — you’re cornin’ over, Lizzie? ” 

Naw, Hughy. I’m not.” 

^^Eh? You’re not! An’ what . . . Words failed 
Hughy. 

I’m goin’ over the bog to see Anne Daly.” Lizzie 
stood upright, drove the prongs of her grape into a 
manure heap and stretched her arms. She asked me 
this mornin’ to go an’ have a bite wi’ her — an’ I’m 
goin’.” 

Aw,” said Hughy. I see. Then, that bein’ so — 
we’d be powerful glad o’ your company, Lizzie,” he went 
on, looking wistfully at her — if only you’d come.” 

I’m thankful to ye, Hughy. Still, a promise is a 
promise.” 

Ah, I know, I know. I wouldn’t have ye — Aw, not 
at all.” Hughy half turned aAvay and stood looking at 
the grass. Aw, not at all,” said he; not at all. 
Still ” Again he paused; and at that Lizzie went. 


24 


lEISH PASTOEALS 


Ay, still — ’’ said she. Mebbe you’ll know the rest 
be the time I get back.” And flinging a laugh over her 
shoulder, away she went across the ridge-tops. 

Hughy bent his head, slowly crossed the fleld and came 
to the lane hedge. There in its shelter, a Are of peat 
burnt brightly; and beside it sat Peter Jarmin, his legs 
stretched out, his back against the half fllled potato sack, 
and a great piece of rye bread in his hand. A bottle of 
cold tea stood warming by his foot; his hat hung jauntily 
across an eye; already had the Are drawn the blueness 
from his face: he looked comfortable, did Peter, and his 
lips went smacking with a relish over the cold dryness 
of his dinner. 

Hughy rounded the Are; lifted his coat oA the ditch, 
took from one pocket a bottle of milk and from the other 
a piece of soda bread knotted inside a red pocket hand- 
kerchief; threw the coat round his shoulders, kicked a 
couple of turf together and, with the Are between him 
and Peter, sat down. He untied the handkerchief, pulled 
out a clasp knife, slit his bread in half, stood one piece in 
the ashes against the sole of his boot and on the point of 
his knife held the other towards the Are to toast. His 
face was sober, thoughtful. Sometimes he shaded his 
eyes with a hand, sometimes drew his Angers slowly 
across his brow; now and then he turned head and looked 
in the direction that Lizzie had gone, once or twice 
caught the glint of Peter’s eyes through the smoke; but 
no word spoke he, and it was not till he had started on 
his second piece of toast that the sound of Peter’s voice 
came to him across the Are. 

Wliere was she oA to? ” 


THE PLANTEES 


25 


To Fat Anne’s.’’ 

I know.” Peter bit at his rye bread; and there- 
after, but for the piping of the hedge, the smacking 
of lips, and the gurgle that came at intervals from the 
bottle-necks, silence reigned. 

Peter finished; fiung his empty bottle towards the 
ditch, buttoned his coat round his shoulders, and putting 
a coal in his pipe leant back against the potato sack. He 
felt mighty comfortable in body — ^full, tight, warm. He 
pulled down his hat brim, folded arms, closed eyes: but 
sleep he could not. Dang it, what ailed him? He shot 
out his legs, sat upright and looked across the fire : there, 
fiat on his back, head on hands and hands on two turf, 
lay Hughy — and he wide awake as a hunted fox. Ho, ho ; 
Hughy awake, too! ’Twas curious, thought Peter; 
mighty curious. He leant back, and began to think — ^to 
think hard and solemnly, even, to all appearance, as 
Hughy his partner, lying there beyond the fire, was think- 
ing. With knitted brow and pursed-up lips and eyes 
cocked knowingly at the blaze, he sat brooding and 
smoking and scheming; then slapped his leg and leant 
forward. 

Yis,” said he, half aloud. Be the king, Pll do 

it Ye wouldn’t be havin’ a deck o’ cards in your 

pocket, Hughy? ” he asked through the smoke. 

Divil a one.” 

Ay. Would ye be havin’ a couple o’ ha’pence, then, 
about ye? ” 

I would.” 

Peter rose. 

Well then,” said he, suppose we have a while at 


26 


IRISH PASTORALS 


pitch an’ toss in the lane? I’m off me sleep, somehow; 
an’ the ground’s hard; an’ — Sure a game’ll do us no 
harm anyway.” 

Hughy stretched up his arms, yawned, slowly rose. 

All right,” said he, and looked — even as Peter was 
looking — across the bog towards the cottage of Fat Anne. 

Divil a hair I care if I do.” 

The two went up the field and out into the lane that 
runs through Emo down towards Thrasna river; there, 
in the levellest spot they could find, set a stone as spud 
and began their game. Peter looked flushed, some- 
what excited; Hughy pitched and tossed with zest if 
with less than his usual skill; in silence, almost in ex- 
citement, the partners played their boy’s game be- 
tween the piping hedges: after half an hour, every 
farthing of Hughy’s tobacco money — some threepence 
sterling — was jingling in Peter’s pocket, and sport was 
over. 

Well, divil take me luck,” said Hughy as he turned 
to the gate. 

Aw, divil take it, indeed,” answered Peter with 
a grin; ^^an’ divil keep me mine. Well, come away 
Hughy, me son; it’s bitter work again after our sport. 
Ay, ay ... . But — but,” he went on, looking here and 
there across the potato field, where’s Lizzie? Sure she 
should be back be this .... Well, no matter; she’ll 
come in time.” And soberly the two tramped back to 
their spades. 

Half an hour went and brought no Lizzie. 

^^Well she’s stretchin’ her tether, anyway,” said 
Peter, and for the twentieth time looked anxiously 


THE PLANTERS 27 

towards Rhamus hill and the estate of the Dalys. I 
wonder if anythin’s come to her? ” 

Arrah, not a thing,” answered Hughy. She’s jist 
kaleyin’ a while at Eat Anne’s.” 

H’m,” grunted Peter. Mebbe so, indeed. Well, 
it’s time she was back. I’m weary waitin’ for her. I’ e 
— I’ve — I’ll give her ten minutes,” cried Peter, an’ 
not a danged second more.” 

Ay? ” Hughy bent his back. Aw, just so.” 

Ten minutes went and brought no Lizzie. Down went 
Peter’s spade. Well, dang me, if this isn’t too bad,” 
he shouted, to weary one like this! I’ll go an’ bring 

her. I’ll ” And at that Hughy’s arm shot out and 

marked a figure coming slowly through the gloom that 
lay spread along the valley. Stay where ye are, Peter,” 
said he. There she is.” 

Peter leant upon his spade, pulled down his hat and 
beneath its brim watched Lizzie wind through the heather 
and over the turf banks; watched her jump the drain that 
bounds the bog; watched her come to the potato field, and 
cross the ridges, and stoop to her work; watched her, for 
a while, go swaying here and there among the manure 
heaps, then suddenly let fall his spade and settled his 
hat firmly on his crown. ‘‘ I’m wishful to say a word 
to her,” said he to Hughy, and moved a step. I — I 
have somethin’ to say — Aw, I’ll not be a jiffy/’ he broke 
off, with a wave of his hand. I’ll be back before 
you’ve covered as much ground as’d bury ye.” And off 
went Peter. 

Now Hughy Fitch was a simple fellow, big hearted and 
trusting; moreover, was Peter Jarmin’s friend and neigh- 


28 


lEISH PASTOEALS 


hour and partner ; still, it must be said that, as Peter threw 
down his spade and went swinging over the grass towards 
Lizzie Dolan, Hughy’s eyes held something like suspicion. 
What, in glory, was the man after? he asked himself. 
What was this he wanted to say? Peter had been strange 
in his ways these last few hours. There was a look in 
his face, a knowing twist in his eye, that he cared little 
for. Somehow, he was not trusting Peter. See him 
there, standing before Lizzie, hands in pockets, legs sprad- 
dled out, his head cocked as impudent as you please. 
What right had he to go to her, to talk to her, to stand 
before her in that fashion? What, in the king’s name, 
was he saying? ’Twas something mighty strange, for see 

how Lizzie was staring at him Ah, he wished 

they were closer; he wished he could hear a word or two. 
There again! Out goes Peter’s hand; up goes his voice; 
out goes t’other hand. Whisht I . . . . Ah, not a word 
can he hear, not one. What, in glory, is he saying? 
What, in blazes, right has he to be saying anything? 
.... There he is again, talking like an auctioneer. 

he — Eh? Is that Lizzie laughing? Ay, it is. See 
her head back, and her mouth open. Haw, haw. Good, 
Lizzie, good! How Peter turns and glowers at the 
ground; wheels round once more; says another word or 
two; gets another laugh from Lizzie; bangs his hat on 
the grass; turns, and .... It was time to be minding 
his own business, thought Hughy. 

The afternoon wore on. Each at his furrow, and with 
no .more than the width of a ridge between their elbows, 
the planters wrought steadily; and one to another spoke 


THE PLANTEKS 


29 


never a word. Sometimes Peter muttered fiercely below 
liis breath, or growled viciously as his spade struck a stone. 
Often enough Hughy stole a quick glance at his partner’s 
face, and wondered to see how black it was and how 
fierce. Now and then a laugh swirled up on the wings 
of the wind; and hearing it, Hughy turned to see Lizzie 
holding her sides, but Peter swore between his teeth. 
At last — two hours maybe having gone since dinner- 
time — Lizzie passed on her way to the fire; and at 
sight of her stepping along, nose in the air and a smile 
on her lips, Peter snatched halter from his tongue and he 
turned and cried : 

The jade! ” And again: The hussy! ” 

Ay?” Hughy raised his eyes. Ay?” 

Look at her prancin’ along. Look at the grin on her. 
The hussy! ” cried Peter again. The jade! ” 

Hughy kept silent. Lizzie sat down beside the fire 
and spread hands to the blaze. Fiercely Peter wielded 
his spade; fiercely, in a while, did he speak: 

She’s a fool — an’ impident fool ! She laughed 

at me, scorned me I’m not an ould man,” 

cried Peter all suddenly; I’m not ugly. Dang me, 
I’m as good a man any day as you, Hughy Fitch! Yis; 
I am.” 

Hughy glanced up at Peter. Sure nobody’s denyin’ 
it,” said he. 

Naw. I know. But — Aw, I know all about it. 
Says she to me : ^ Why I could cut a better man nor 

you out of Hughy yonder an’ him niver to know.’ Could 
she, be jabers! ” shouted Peter, fiinging out an arm. 

Why I’ve more brains to spare in me skull than’d make 


30 


IRISH PASTORALS 


a magistrate of ye. Ye hear that, Hughy Fitch? Ye 
hear me? ’’ 

I hear/’ said Hughy, and smiled. I hear ye.” 

What has bulk or good looks to do wi’ it ? ” Peter 
went on. ’Tisn’t them makes a man no more than they 
make a woman. ’Twasn’t her face or her size made 
me say what I did. Naw. ’Twas — Aw, dang me, if I 
know now what tempted me. The fool I was; the fool! ” 
Hughy kept silent. Peter turned a sod or two; then 
broke out afresh. 

To laugh at me, an’ call me a fool; to scorn me be- 
cause I gave her a chance to better herself! The jade; 
the hussy! But wait. Aw, wait till herself an’ the ould 
mother comes on the parish an’ I have the laugh at her. 
J ust wait ! It’s then she’ll mind the day I offered meself 
to her here in Emo townland — an’ she laughed at me. 
An’ I’ll mind it too. Yis; aw, yis! ” 

Slowly Hughy rose to his full height; slowly looked 
round at Peter. 

I see,” said he. I see. That was it? ” He whistled 
softly. I see,” he said again. Oh, just so.” 

The little fool!” said Peter. Her that hasn’t a 
farthin’ to bless herself with; her that, be her own 
showin’, is more dead nor alive; her to refuse a good 
house, an’ three cows’ place, an’ — Phat! ” cried Peter in 
utter disgust. The fool ! ” 

Hughy had been looking hard at Peter; now he put 
a foot on the ridge and leant towards him. 

I say, J armin,” said he. This’ll be a mean kind 
o’ trick you’re after playin’.” 

What? ” snapped Peter. 


THE PLANTEKS 


31 


Why didn’t ye tell me what ye were after? ” 

What’s that to you? ” 

Ivery thing. Ye knew I — I used to be courtin’ the 
girl.” 

An’ if I did? ” 

Ye knew I was pityin’ her — ^ye knew I was keen to 
do somethin’ — ye knew, be the look o’ me, I was meanin’ 
to do somethin’ ! ” 

‘‘Knew be danged, Hughy Fitch! I knew nothin’.” 

“ Then why did ye go slinkin’ off without sayin’ a 
word? ” 

What’s that to you, I say again? ” 

Why didn’t ye play fair? ” Hughy persisted, his body 
bent towards Peter, head lowered, eyes glowing steadily. 

Peter’s face flared crimson ; as if stung by a whip lash 
his lean figure quivered. 

Play fair?” cried he, tense and shrill. What d’ 
ye mean? — ye whelp ye! Who didn’t play fair? Didn’t 
I ax ye if ye had cards — an’ ye hadn’t? Didn’t I toss 
ye out there on the lane — an’ didn’t I win? Hadn’t I 
made up me mind that if I won Pd ax her to marry me, 
an’ if I didn’t win I’d — I’d — ? Who played ye false, 
Fitch ? ” growled Peter, and pushed his face closer to 
Hughy’s. Who played ye false ! ” 

Hughy drew back, and silently stood looking at his 
partner. 

“ Say the word again,” growled Peter. “ Who did ye 
say played ye false? ” 

“ I take it back, Peter; I take back the word. I — ^I 
was hasty. I — I said too much.” Hughy paused; looked 
at his boots; slowly raised his eyes. “ All the same, Peter, 


32 


IKISH PASTOEALS 


’twould ha’ been a friend’s act to ha’ given me a hint — 
sure it would. Sure ye might ha’ asked me, knowin’ how 
I was thinkin’, if I had — if I had a word to say.” 

Peter laughed sardonically; turned and lifted his 
spade. 

Ah, ’deed I might,” he said. Sure I might! ” 

’Twould ha’ done ye no harm,” Hughy went on; then 
paused and looked at his spade. But sure,” he mused, 
it’s much the same after all. Sure — sure she re- 
fused ye.” 

Hech ! ” grunted Peter. • 

An’ that bein’ so,” said Hughy, the glad light of 
inspiration flashing in his eyes; that bein’ so, sure 
things are much as they were, an’ there’s nothin’ to hinder 

me ” He stopped; looked at Lizzie; turned and 

gripped his spade. Aw, just so,” said he, with a smile 
and a nod. Aw', just so 1 ” 

Aw, ’deed ay,” laughed Peter. An’ God help the 
man, say 1, that has to face the world wi’ the wits of a 
goose! ” 


III 

Hughy turned to his furrow and fell a-pondering. He 
must take stock of things, he said to himself; put this 
and that together, look before he leaped. 

Think of Peter doing that — little, ugly, black Peter. 
Haw, haw! And think of Lizzie giving him the send- 

back. Haw, haw! Good for Lizzie; good for her 

He liked the girl; thought a power of her; would be more 
content with her than with anyone he ever knew; he 


THE PLANTERS 


33 


pitied her, too; from his heart wanted to do the crature 
a good turn, to take her from the trouble and give her of 

the best he had She would make a good wife, a 

strong, healthy, cheerful, willing wife; she would keep 
the loneliness from him, and keep the hearthstone bright 
and warm; she would — Ah, she’d do more for him than 

he deserved Suppose he asked her? Would she 

have him? Ah, to be sure! He wasn’t Peter Jarmin, 
thanks be to God. He minded the time he was as near 
to asking her as his foot was to the spade. The word was 
ready; but, somehow, he never said it. He was afraid. 
He had thoughts, just then, of going to America; he was 
unsettled ; her mother had abused him, his own had not 
been keen on the match; somehow, he had never said the 
word. Often he had thought about the matter since, 
often enough; but, somehow — och, somehow! .... And 
now? Was he more settled now? Were things brighter? 
H’m! Still — och, still! Ah, things weren’t so bad; 
and sure they might mend. He’d work hard; Lizzie 
would do her share; there was the bit o’ land, the cow, 
the goats, the ducks and turkeys; there was a decent 
house and a stick or two of furniture — and sure, God was 

good, anyhow. Ay, ay Dear, dear, the strange 

way things turned out. Not a notion did he have, when 
he left home that morning, of giving Lizzie the word, not 
one. And now? Well, no matter. Maybe ’twas all for 

the best Suppose he went, then and there, and 

asked her? Maybe she was expecting him; maybe Pe- 
ter — Hughy looked at Lizzie, at Peter, at the hills, 
at his boots; rubbed his chin; looked again at Lizzie; 
worked awhile, pondered awhile; started to go, came 


34 : 


IKISH PASTOKALS 


back; started again, came back again; at last decided to 
keep his word until the glad hour of tea-time. 

Tea-time came; and still Hughy wavered. Sure 
there was no hurry, he said. How could he give his 
word to the girl, and she drinking out of the same can 
with himself and Peter? How could he ask her, with 
Peter sitting there blinking and grinning like a mad 
monkey? Sure it was time enough. Sure there was no 
hurry. Sure he’d speak to her inside half an hour. 
Yes; danged but he would! 

The half hour went; an hour went; the end of the 
second hour saw Hughy still pondering, and turning 
things over, and making up and unmaking his mind; 
the third brought dusk and quitting time, and to Hughy 
the determination — fixed and steady — to give Lizzie his 
word on the way home. That was it; that was the time! 
He’d have her at his elbow; Peter would have left them 
to themselves; it would be dark then and quiet and 
lonely; sure as gun was iron he’d speak the word before 
they passed Lackan lough! He hid his spade in a fur- 
row; put on his coat and lit his pipe; then, elbow on 
the gate and hat rakishly cocked, stood waiting for 
Lizzie. He wondered if the word would come easily; 
wondered how Lizzie would take it; wondered, at 
last, how much longer she might be in taking off her 

prasheen What! Where was she going? Why 

was she making for Phamus? Wasn’t she coming 
home? In a flurry, Hughy put hands to mouth and 
shouted : 

Hoi-i-i, Lizzie. Hoi-i-i, Lizzie.” The girl turned 
her head. Aren’t ye cornin’ home? ” 


THE PLANTEKS 


35 


Naw/’ Lizzie walked on. 

Where — where are ye goin’, then? 

& luck! 

Hughy stood dumbfounded. Peter came up, passed 
through the gateway, laughed in his sarcastic way and 
went up the lane toward Emo house. 

But, Lizzie — ah, Lizzie — I say, Lizzie — och, don’t 
go!" 

Ah, Lizzie,” mocked Peter in the lane; och, Liz- 
zie, don’t go.” 

But already Lizzie was topping the ridges on her 
way towards Ehamus. 

For a while, Hughy stood looking after her; then 
braced himself and went hurrying in her steps. Over 
the potato field he went, across the bottoms, along the 
heathery turf-banks of Emo bog. Somewhat vexed he 
felt, a little hurt, a little anxious that she might be bent 
on something reckless; it was with a sigh of relief — 
rufiled, maybe, with a breath of disappointment — that 
he saw her bend head and enter the smoke-wreathed 
portal of the Dalys’. 

Hughy stopped; backed into the shelter of a hedge 
and stood pondering the position. Should he follow 
her? Ho. Anne had a tongue; James a knowing way 
with him. Should he make for home, and keep his word 
for the morning? Ho. He was tired keeping it; he 
would wait for the girl. In a ditch, therefore, with 
the whistling hedge at his back, and the dour sky above 
him, Hughy sat him down and fell to humouring dull 
time with an occasional thought, an odd stave of song, a 


36 


lEISH PASTORALS 


whiff now and then of precious tobacco. He felt hungry, 
tired, cold. At intervals, he heard the sound of Lizzie^s 
laughter, of Anne’s skirls, of James’ hollow roar; pres- 
ently came the clink of spoons and the rattle of tea cups. 
Ugh! He tightened his belt, buttoned his coat; moved 

further away from the sounds of revelry An 

hour passed and left Hughy desolate, sick with hunger 
and loneliness. The night hung around him, grey and 
grim. Was she never, never coming? He rose again, 
climbed Khamus hill, scrambled across the old castle 
wall; with eyes fixed steadily on the path up which 

Lizzie must come, sat patiently waiting Ah, 

she was powerful slow in coming. Ah, he was famished, 
chilled to the bone. Was she — Whist 1 There she was. 
Noiselessly Hughy slunk from the ruins, crouched 
across the fields, struck the Bunn road at Stonegate; 
there stood waiting in the black shade of a hedge. 

Before long the sound of Lizzie’s step came to 
Hughy; and at that he stepped upon the road and turned 
to meet her. Hands deep in his pockets, shoulders 
loosely swaggering, and voice humouring the night with 
a tuneless stave from Nor ah Creina, aimlessly — so he 
affected it — he went sauntering along. Presently he 
met Lizzie; passed her with a gruff Good-night: then, 
wheeled about, caught her up and peered round into her 
face. 

Why,” said he, and slapped his leg; dang me, if it 
isn’t herself! Well, well.” Without a word, Lizzie 
walked on. Now, who’d ha’ thought it,” Hughy con- 
tinued, shortening his stride; who’d ha’ thought this 
was goin’ to happen to me? Here was I, daunderin’ 


THE PLANTEES 


37 


along the road an’ singin’ to meself, just settlin’ me 
supper an’ thinkin’ o’ nothin’ much; when someone 
passes. ^ Good-night/ says I, like that, an’ walks on; 
then stops as if somethin’ hit me ; hurries back an’ there 
— there was Lizzie herself! Well, well. Now, now.” 
Lizzie kept silent; bravely she stepped along, lonely on 
her own side of the road. An’ — an’ how is it,” asked 
Hughy, in a while, that you’d be these parts at this 
time o’ night? Sure I thought ye were at home hours 
ago.” 

Did ye ? ” came across the road. 

^^Ah, to be sure; to be sure. Why, woman alive, 
it’s gone supper time; it’s nine o’clock if it’s a 
minute.” 

I know. How long’d it be, Hughy Fitch, since 
yourself said Good-bye to the supper-pot? ” 

Aw, a good while, Lizzie; now it’d be a good while.” 

A matter of a day an’ a night, mebbe? ” 

Och, not at all. Woman alive, a day an’ a night! ” 

We were thinkin’ in Fat Anne’s,” said Lizzie quiet- 
ly, that mebbe you’d be cornin’ in; but sure, I suppose, 
ye found your own company enough yonder on the 
ditch.” 

Aw 1 ” Hughy missed a step. An’ did ye see 

me? Did ye, now? Sure — sure Och, Lizzie, I 

was sore to see ye goin’ off like that. Sure I thought it 
strange.” 

Ay?” 

I — I had a word to say to ye.” Hughy sidled across 

the road. I — I wanted to — to ” Hughy sidled 

back again. What was this Peter Jarmin was sayin’ 


38 


IRISH PASTORALS 


to ye? ’’ he asked in a while. He seemed ojus put out 
about somethin’; ay, he did.” 

Is that so? ” 

Ay. He looked as black as a thunderstorm. He 
swore powerful. He called ye — och, all the names in 
the world.” 

An’ ye listened to him! ” 

Listen? An’ what else could I do? Wasn’t I joyed 
to see him like that, an’ to hear him.” Hughy turned 
on the road. Be the Lord, I nearly took him be the 
throat when he said what he’d been at. The little 
black crow! To think of him darin’ to ax ye what he 
did ! ” Hughy walked on a yard or two ; then went 
slanting across the road. But sure — sure it’s all the 
same now. Sure it’s just the same as if he’d niver said 
a word to ye, Lizzie.” 

Is that so? ” 

^^Ay. It’s just the same. Be the powers, but 
ye served him right; but ye paid him out in fine 
style!” Hughy laughed, slapped his knee; edged 
still closer to Lizzie. What, in glory, Lizzie, did ye 
say to him? ” 

How d’ye know I said anythin’, Hughy Pitch? ” 

‘‘ Know? Sure I seen ye. Sure I heard ye laughin’. 
Sure I heard ye talkin’. What — what, the divil, Lizzie, 
was it ye said? ” 

Nothin’, Hughy Pitch, I haven’t said before, meb- 
be; an’ nothin’ I wouldn’t say again — if I wanted to.” 

Ay? Aw, just so. Nothin’ ye haven’t said before, 
nothin’ ye wouldn’t say again. Aw, just so.” Hughy 
took to his own side of the way; hung his head and 


THE PLANTEKS 


39 


went slouching along, hands in pockets and eyes on the 
dust. Aw, just so,’’ he muttered. Ay, indeed.” 

The two passed Lackan lough; went up Lackan brae; 
and on between the Gorteen hedges, poplars, clustered 
apple trees. Not a word fell from either. Not a soul 
did they meet; not a light blinked in a cottage; not a 
sound but the bitter whistling of the wind and the tramp 
of their own feet, came to them. The night was dark; 
gloomy and low, the sky went rushing past; naked and 
forlorn, the wind-swept fields stretched away right and 
left of the weary road. Lizzie shivered; sighed softly, 
glanced towards Hughy. Och,” said she as if to her- 
self. Aw, dear ! ” Hughy turned his head and went 
sidling towards Lizzie : Lizzie dropped her eyes and went 
sidling towards Hughy. They touched elbows about 
the middle of the road. 

You’re lonesome, Lizzie?” 

Ah, no — no. Sure it’s nothin’.” 

But ye are. I know it. Haven’t I seen ye all the 
day long. Didn’t I hear ye sighin’ not a minute ago. I 
say, Lizzie: What is it? ” 

It’s nothin’,” answered Lizzie, almost in a sob. 

Aw, it’s nothin’.” 

But it is somethin’. I know it is. Niver before 
did I see ye in such a humour. God knows, twenty 
times this day I had it in me mind to pitch that ould 
grape in a boghole an’ send ye home. An’ I would — 
only — only Peter was there — only ye were so curious 
in your ways — only ” 

Hughy’s fountain of speech dried suddenly. His 
throat was parched; his heart thumpmg. He bowed his 


40 


lEISH PASTOEALS 


head; rubbea his chin; walked on by Lizzie’s elbow in 
solemn pondering. How say the word? he asked him- 
self over and over; how make a start? Once more 
Lizzie sighed and murmured. Hughy glanced at her. 

Lizzie. I say, Lizzie.” 

Well, Hughy.” 

Would ye — were ye in earnest, the day, when ye 
wished ye could get off to Ameriky? Were ye, now? ” 

In earnest? Ah, God knows I was! ” 

An’ why were ye? Woman dear, what put such 
a thing in your head? Didn’t ye know — don’t ye 
know ? ” 

The word would not come; and below his breath 
Hughy cursed his impotent tongue. The fool he was! 
What ailed him? Why did he feel so strange, so help- 
less? Why did the word hang trembling on his lips, 
trembling and refusing to take wing? 

Ah,” cried he presently; ah, don’t ye know, Liz- 
zie? Don’t ye know? ” 

What, Hughy? ” 

Why that — that ” Hughy stopped. Ah, 

curse me for a fool, that can’t get a word out o’ me! 
I’m — I’m worse nor a fool. I’m — See here, Lizzie; 
have pity on one. Can’t ye say a word to help me? ” 
Lizzie looked slyly up at this big, slow Hughy and 
her eyes were gleaming. 

Say a word, Hughy? Arrah, what could I say? ” 

Tell me you’ll — Och, ye know what I mean.” 

Is it anything about — about Peter, Hughy? ” 

Dang Peter!” 

Is it anything about yourself, then, Hughy? ” 


THE PLANTEES 


41 


Ay, it is — about meself an’ you, Lizzie.” 

An’ something about the ould mother at home?” 
Lizzie went on, her eyes slyly twinkling beneath the 
peak of her cap. 

Yis, yis! That’s it.” 

^^An’ a word about the ould days when ye used 
to ? 

Yis, yis! ” 

When ye used to sit wi’ your toes in the ashes, an’ 
throw sheep’s eyes at me, an’ glower at the ould mother 
— God help her! — an’ ? ” 

Yis, yis! That’s it, Lizzie.” 

An’ ye used to — to — Ah, how can I say it? ” 

Ah, do, Lizzie. For God’s sake do, woman! ” 

Ye used to — sit wi’ your arm round me — an’ — an’ 
kiss me at the dure? ” 

Like a man Hughy turned on the road and took Lizzie 
to his heart. 

Ah, yis, Lizzie; ah, yis. Aw, woman dear; woman 

dear! .... At last; at last Och, but I’m glad. 

Aw, woman dear! An’ you’ll have me, Lizzie; you’ll 
have me? Say it, woman; say it! ” 

Lizzie raised her eyes. 

Sure it looks like it, Hughy.” 

An’ you’ll say no more about Ameriky? An’ you’ll 
have no more o’ your lonesomeness? An’ you’ll be just 
the same as ye used to be in the ould days? ” 

Wi’ the help o’ God,” answered Lizzie. 

^^An’ you’ll play no more o’ your pranks on me? 
You’ll not be leadin’ me the sorrows’ own dance, till 
it’s not a know I know if I’m on me head or me heels? ” 


42 


IKISH PASTOKALS 


Naw/’ said Lizzie, and laughed softly on Hughy’s 
shoulder. Naw. I’ll keep all that now — for Peter.” 

Then Hughy took her face in his hands and looked 
down into it. 

Look here, me girl,” said he, his voice solemn as 
the night’s; no more o’ that. Let Peter’s name alone. 
As a partner he’s well enough, but as a friend I’m mis- 
trustful of him. Ye hear me? ” 

I — I do.” Again Lizzie laughed softly; then, sud- 
denly and passionately, flung her arms round Hughy’s 
neck and raised her face to his. Hughy,” cried 
she. Aw, Hughy, man ! Ah, the weary day it’s been, 
the weary day; an’ now — an’ now! . . . • Hughy, 
man! . . . .” 

And the hedges sang, and the trees moaned sooth- 
ingly; and old earth spun merrily beneath the feet of 
these two, the man and the maid, standing there under 
the rushing sky in their eternal youth with their eternal 
story. 


THE TURF-CUTTERS 



I 


I T was the first real day of spring; a living, heart- 
some day. The great sun looked joyously down on 
a wakening earth; the air had a freshness as of 
the sea; from every hedgerow the birds piped out; the 
hills were alive, the valleys jubilant; far away, my Lord 
the mountain stretched himself lazily in the sunshine; 
everywhere beneath the sky ran a riot of life, the earth 
thrilled with it, the wind came throbbing with its 
fervour. 

In the valley which lies between Emo and Rhamus 
hill, the turf -cutters were out; and now, the clang of the 
one-o’clock bell in Louth farmyard having died away 
among the hills, sat squatted round their fires among 
the heather. All the morning, from a score of mounds, 
the blue smoke had streamed up, had run its tattered 
skirts together above the hill-tops, swept before stress 
of the wind out over Thrasna river and gone trailing for 
the shining roofs of Bunn. All the morning, it had 
filled the valley and lain stretched like a blue veil upon 
the distant hills; wherever you went, all the morning, 
the pungent smell of it — bringing to you memories of 
mud walls, soot-blackened rafters and clacking groups 
round cottage hearthstones — had come to you, now thin 
and faint, like the whiff from a peasant’s coat as he 
slouches up the aisle o’ Sundays, now wholesome and 
refreshing as the breath of whins, now hot and reek- 
45 


46 


lEISH PASTOKALS 


ing as from the mouths of wattled chimneys. All 
the morning, in all your wanderings, the wind had 
brought to you the sound of laughter, the shouts of 
men, the songs of women, the skirls of children; now 
and then as the smoke lifted, you had glimpse of the 
crowd of workers, saw the flash of spades and the 
glint of shawls and handkerchiefs, the quick popping 
of peat from black bog-holes, the going and coming 
across the banks of shrieking barrows : so, all the morn- 
ing, it had been; now, silence held the valley, the smoke 
went up thin and clear, and scattered among the willow 
clumps, you had sight of the turf-cutters gathered in 
groups round the twinkling flres. 

At top of the bog, not far from the Curleck road, 
burned the Are of the Dalys; and round it, sitting squat 
on the peat bank, was a party of ten: three men, three 
women and four children — a family group gathered 
from neighbouring bog-holes to make merry over the 
potatq^s and salt. 

As lord of the Are and tenant, moreover, of an ele- 
gant mudhouse (the same, in fact, that, in the old days, 
had sheltered Pete Coyne), James Daly held chief seat 
at the feast, well shielded from the wind by a stunted 
willow, his back to a stump and legs crossed luxuriously. 
Beside him, on the one hand, his brother-in-law Mike 
Brady, a thin sour-looking man, sat propped against a 
creel; on the other, his old father sat bent forward like 
ripened corn, eyes flxed wearily on the Are and his 
chin wagging. Facing these, cook and hostess in one, 
squatted the buxom Mrs. Daly — known thereabouts as 
Fat Anne — having on this side her sister-in-law Mrs. 


THE TUEF-CUTTEES 


47 


Judy Brady, a woefully thin and yellow little woman, 
and on that her cousin Lizzie Dolan, young, fresh, 
bouncing, the belle of the bog. 

These six almost ringed the fire ; but behind the broad 
back of Mrs. Daly, a lesser ring of four shockheaded 
children kept themselves in a fine state of excitement by 
jouking under the elbows of their elders for a chance 
glimpse at the fire, by scrambling for the potatoes that 
occasionally came fiying over their mother’s shoulder, 
peeling them with their fingers (in slavish imitation, be 
it said, of the ways of their elders) and throwing the 
skins to the dog. All were bare-legged and bare-footed, 
and what garments they had were coarse and ragged; 
the men were mud-spattered from head to foot, the 
women peat-stained to the ankles and elbows, the chil- 
dren gaping boldly through their tatters; the grip of 
winter was still fast in their bones, its hardships deep 
on their faces; not a man there had sixpence in his 
pocket or a pound in the world, you might have weighed 
— and valued — the bulk of them against half a ton of 
hay : truly an uncouth party enough, and a motley, striv- 
ing there, on the fat earth, beneath the glad sky, to 
appease stern hunger with offerings of potatoes and 
salt and libations of buttermilk. 

Well, glory be to God,” said Lizzie Dolan, as she 
cooled a potato by throwing it deftly from hand to 
hand; glory be to God, but it’s grand to feel that warm 
sun on the small o’ your back! ” 

Yis,” said Anne Daly, and turning over on her 
knees began drawing a fresh cast of roasted potatoes 
from the fire with a pair of wooden tongs. Yis; an’ 


48 


lEISH PASTOKALS 


when, forby that, the fire’s scorchin’ the face on ye it’s 
like as if ye were stretched between two mustard plas- 
ters. There ye are, childer,” cried she, dropping the 
potatoes one by one over her shoulder; an’ God send 
they may fatten ye.” The children skirled and scram- 
bled; the dog yelped and jumped. Stop your throats 
over there, dang ye,” shouted Mike Brady. An’ stop 
yours,” retorted Anne Daly, offering Mike a potato. 
The milk noggin went round. From hand to hand 
passed the saucer of pepper and salt. And now, 
for a while, about the Dalys’ fire, the wolves ceased 
snarling. 

Lizzie Dolan wiped her lips on her bare arm and 
sighed contentedly. Och, but it’s the heavenly day, 
anyway,” said she, with a look at the sky. Look how 
far away the sky has gone — an’ it as blue as blue. Aw, 
me! An’ to think that only yisterday, or the day be- 
fore, we were shiverin’ in our stockin’s .... an’ now 
— an’ now we’re as warm as warm. Aw, sure, it’s pow- 
erful to be alive! ” 

Mike Brady leant towards Lizzie. 

Ay, it’s well to be alive. It’d take more’n the sun 
to warm ye if ye were below,” said Mike, pointing down- 
wards with a finger. Sun or moon,” he went on grim- 
ly, when he had blown his potato cool, is all one when 
the worms are in your bones.” 

‘‘ Ugh, listen to the man! ” Lizzie shivered a little. 

Lord sees, it’s ducked in a bog-hole ye should be, Mike 
Brady. Such talk on such a day! ” 

An’ what ails the talk? An’ what ails the day, will 
ye tell me? ” Mike fixed his black little eyes on Lizzie’s 


THE TUEF-CUTTEKS 


49 


face. Just because you feel like a filly on grass, is 
that any reason why I should? Eh? 

Anne Daly sat back on her heels, leant on the tongs 
and bent towards Mike. 

Listen to me, Mike Brady,’’ said she. It’d be 
manners in ye to keep your foolishness till you’ve filled 
your stomach. Man alive, what ails ye? Or did ye 
sleep on nettles last night? You an’ your bones an’ 
worms — Ach! ” 

She’s right there,” said James Daly, with a wag 
of his head. Keep such talk till you’re like the ould 
man here. Time enough to talk o’ graves, Mike, when 
your head’s white.” 

Ay, ay,” groaned old Daly. Och, ay! ” 

An’ isn’t it just that,” snapped Mike; isn’t it just 
because I’m travellin’ fast to white hairs meself that 
I say such things? ” 

White hairs your granny!” sneered Anne Daly. 

An’ you with ivery tooth in your head. Arrah, whisht 
wi’ your bleather, Mike Brady! ” 

Arrah, whisht wi’ yours,” retorted Mike. D’ye 
think ye can tell me about meself? A lot o’ good the 
sun or the spring does any man when the blood’s cowld 
in him. Look at Lizzie, bloomin’ over there like a 
meadow daisy, an’ as full o’ life as a kitten. D’ye think 
I’m iver goin’ to feel like that again? ” 

Ach, whisht, Mike,” said Lizzie and dropped her 
face. 

It’s God’s truth,” moaned James Daly; it’s God’s 
truth. I mind when the sight o’ the spring sun’d make 
me jump like a salmon, an’ go struttin’ along in me 


60 


lEISH PASTOEALS 


glory like a full-feathered peacock. Ay, I do. But it 
doesn’t now. Na, na. It doesn’t now. Ay, but it’s 
well to be young. Yis.” 

It is so,” groaned old Daly. It is so.” 

Aw, ay,” sighed little yellow Judy Brady. It 
is so.” 

Dole seemed come upon the party; almost might you 
have expected to see them turn from the feast and sob 
among the heather. Of the six making the inner ring — 
already had the children and the dog gone scampering 
across the bog in quest of diversion — only Anne Daly 
kept from groaning. 

Well, divil take me,” cried she, but it’s the lively 
party we’re gettin’. Faith, if we only had a hearse it’s 
a dacent funeral we’d make between us. Here, dang 
your eyes,” she shouted, scattering fresh potatoes over 
the turf bank, ‘‘ stop your croakin’ wi’ them! ” 

James her husband drew out his pipe and with a little 
finger began probing the bowl in search of tobacco. 

Me belt’s tight,” said he; but I’ll croak no more.” 

Thank God for that same,” replied Anne. 

For all that,” continued James with an eye on Liz- 
zie, I’m free to remark, I suppose, that it’s well to 
be young.” 

Lizzie raised her head. 

An’ who’s denyin’ it? ” said she, not very softly. 

Divil a soul,” answered James, reaching for a coal. 

To hear you, an’ more than you, you’d think ye 
were all grudgin’ me me youth.” 

Faith, an’ so I am.” Gravely James made answer, 
gravely through his pipe smoke winked at Judy Brady. 


THE TUEF-CUTTERS 


61 


So I am/’ said James, for I wish to glory, Lizzie, I 
was young meself an’ had ye this mortial minit i’ the 
inside o’ me arm.” 

Lizzie tittered and flushed; Judy Brady put a hand on 
her wizened lips; Mike sniffed twice, which was as near 
laughter as he usually got; Anne Daly looked across 
the Are at her husband. 

I’m thankful to ye. Mister Daly,” said she, with a 
toss of her head. 

Arrah, not at all, Mrs. Daly,” answered James, and 
waved his pipe stem; not at all. Woman dear, ould 
married people like ourselves are used to these wee 
things. Sure, ye needn’t thank me. Sure, one o’ these 
flne days, some tight fella — we all know who — ’ll be 
sayin’ as much to Lizzie herself over the coals.” 

Again J ames winked at Judy Brady. Lizzie reddened 
and bridled. Will he, indeed? ” snapped she. 

Aw, ’deed he will, me girl; ’deed he will.” 

An’ supposin’ he doesn’t. Mister Daly? ” 

The Lord send, child; the Lord send.” 

Then suppose he does^ Mister Daly? What’ll hap- 
pen then? ” 

Aw, the Lord knows, child; the Lord knows.” 

Ye think,” said Lizzie, bending towards her tor- 
mentor; ^^ye think I’ll sit here like Anne an’ listen to 
him? ” 

^^I’m thinkin’ so,” drawled James. Supposin’ 
you’re wise, I’m thinkin’ so.” 

An’ supposin’ I’m not wise? ” 

Then there’ll be the divil to pay, I’m fearin’.” 

Then Lizzie stretched an arm towards James^ and 


52 


lEISH PASTOEALS 


fixed him with glittering eyes, and cried : That’s what 
ye think o’ marryin’ — that’s what ye think, James 
Daly! ” 

That’s it,” answered James, and looked at his wife; 

that’s me experience But niver fear, acushla; 

take things aisy. Marryin’s like all else; ye get used 
to it in the course o’ time. Ye do so.” 

Ye think that! ” Again Lizzie writhed and panted' 
and cried. An’ ye think I — I ” 

I know all about it,” answered James in his driest 
voice ; iverything I know about it. At first, when 
the hard word comes, you’ll bite your lips; then, after 
a year or so, when you’re seasoned a bit, you’ll fiare out 
angry an’ mebbe go for the tongs; after that, if you’re 
wise, you’ll just notice nothin’. Ah, no. Like an ass’s 
skin you’ll get dull o’ feelin’; sticks’ll only rattle on ye; 
nothin’ but prods of a pin’ll make ye jump. Ah, no. 
That’s the way o’ the world, sirs. We’re all the same. 
At first, when Mary goes to the milkin’ out Pat must 
go to carry the candle; after a while, Mary goes be 
herself, an’ Pat sits smokin’ up the chimbley; another 
year or two goes, an’ if the cow kicks Mary into the 
gripe Pat says it’s a damned good job; after that, it’s 
just waitin’ for the end, an’ when that comes it’s good- 
bye to the graveyard for Pat or Mary — an’ a good rid- 
dance too Ay, that’s how the world goes, sirs; 

that’s the way.” 

J ames settled back against his stump, folded his arms, 
and with the knowing smile of your professional hu- 
mourist broad on his face, sat waiting for sport. Al- 
ready, old Daly was nodding over his pipe; with gleam- 


THE TUEF-OUTTEES 


53 


ing eyes, the rest of the ring bent forward to have good 
sight of Lizzie’s face. 

That’s what ye say,” cried she, and stretched out a 
quivering arm; that’s what ye tell me to expect? 
That’s the experience has come to you, Jam^s Daly, 
after all these years? An’ ye sit there tellin’ it to me! 
. . . . But let me tell ye this, James Daly — an’ to your 
face I say it: If I thought your words were true, I’d 
scorn ye; an’ for meself, I’d pray the Lord to keep me 
always a child, an’ I’d sooner die this day, nor . . . 

At loss of a word, perhaps at loss of a thought — for 
she was speaking in a flurry of excitement — Lizzie 
paused; and just then the young scarecrows of Dalys 
began clamouring in the heather. 

Here’s ould Eawbin,” cried they. Look, mammy, 
at ould Eawbin an’ the ass.” 

Go on,” said James Daly to Lizzie. You’d sooner 
die nor what? ” 

Here’s ould Eawbin,” shouted the scarecrows. 

Look, mammy — look! ” 

Ah, be quiet, ye brats ye ! ” shouted Anne. 

Aw, but here’s ould Eawbin,” persisted the scare- 
crows: and with that Lizzie sat back and dropped her 
arm. 


II 

Along the narrow cart-pass which from Curleck road 
runs over Emo bog, an old man came slowly and before 
him drove an ass and creels. His face was withered, 
rough, stubbled with iron-grey hair. A battered beaver 


54 


lEISH PASTOKALS 


liat hung precariously on his crown, and about his neck 
was a woollen muffler wrapped round and round, the 
ends hanging outside his half-open waistcoat. A long 
frieze coat, adorned with patches everywhere, with brass 
buttons here and there, and pieces of cord in place of 
buttons elsewhere, hung from his bent old shoulders to 
his feeble old knees; his legs were tightly bound in 
coils of straw rope, and with each step his heavy unlaced 
boots slipped up and down his heels. Steadily he plodded 
along, eyes fixed straight before him, tongue incessantly 
clicking, his oaken staff resting upon the crupper of the 
creel-mats. 

Now Robin, as he was called, was something of a 
character and a good deal of a favourite; and as he passed 
the Dalys’ fire, Anne, nothing loth maybe, in the man- 
ner of hostesses, to change the talk among her party, or 
to bring diversion to it, rose and hailed him. 

‘‘ Hoi-i-iy Robin,” she called. How the mischief 
are ye ? ” 

Fm rightly,” answered Robin and plodded on. 

Is it pass us ye would without a crack? ” cried Anne. 

Och, man alive, what’s the hurry? ” 

I want scraws for the fire,” came back; I haven’t 
a spark.” 

Ah, sorrow take the fire. Come over here an’ share 
ours, an’ ate a roasted pratie; come on, now.” 

Robin stopped short, scratched his pate, mumbled a 
word or two to himself; then left the ass to its devices, 
crossed the ditch which keeps the bog from the cart 
track, and went stumbling through the heather towards 
the Dalys’ fire. 


THE TUKF-CUTTEES 


55 


All welcomed him. James shared with him the lux- 
ury of his stump and willow; Anne piled the potatoes 
before him, set the milk noggin at his elbow, promised 
him a bite o’ bread an’ a dribble o’ tay later on, and 
told him to fire away. Without any ado Robin shot a 
potato from its skin, dipped it in the salt and began eat- 
ing. He gave no time to talk; seldom lifted eyes from 
hands; within ten minutes of the time of his coming 
there was not a potato outside his coat. 

He put down the milk noggin; gave a sigh of big 
content; wiped lips on sleeve, settled back against the 
stump and began groping for his pipe. Already James 
Daly, an elbow resting on the stump and cheek in hand, 
was fast asleep; Mike Brady, fiat on his face and fore- 
head resting on his crossed wrists, was lying like a log; 
old Daly, still sitting by the fire, had gathered up his 
legs, laid arms across his knees, bent head upon them, 
and so gone fast asleep: from the three went up a great 
noise of snoring. 

Well, I’m obliged to ye for that, Anne,” said Robin, 
bringing forth his pipe. Lord love ye for it. Sure 
it’s powerful to feel full again. Ay, ay.” 

Aw, not at all, Robin; not at all, man,” answered 
Anne, and set an old black porringer upon the fire; it’s 
a poor heart, sure, wouldn’t share a bite wi’ a neigh- 
bour.” She held out a coal in the tongs. Here ye 
are, me son. Light up an’ have a draw before the 
tay’s ready.” 

I’m obliged to ye, Anne; I’m obliged to ye. Lord 
love ye, Anne,” said Robin; then lit his pipe and began 
smoking. Gradually his eyelids grew heavy; the pipe 


56 


IRISH PASTORALS 


went out and fell from his lips; his head sank, rose, sank 
again, suddenly fell back against the stump — and Robin 
was with the snorers. 

Anne Daly took the porringer from the fire; poured 
some tea into a mug, added a little sugar and handed 
the mug to Mrs. Brady. 

Drink, Judy,’’ said she. 

God bless ye, Anne,” said Judy; and drank. 

Did iver God make quarer cratures nor the men, 
I wonder,” Anne went on, and passed the mug to 
Lizzie. To think o’ the four sleepin’ there like brute 
beasts an’ good tay goin’ beggin’ ! Lord sees, it’s won- 
derful.” 

Ay, it’s wonderful,” said Judy Brady. Ah, sure, 
they’re the powerful strange mortals, anyway.” 

Strange ? ” said Anne. It’s not the word. They’re 

onknowable.” 

There’s Mike’d sleep fifteen hours on end, without 
iver budgin’ a limb,” said Judy. Dear knows, but 
only for the hunger, sometimes I think he’d niver 
wake.” 

Well, he’ll get little chance then o’ sleepin’ for iver 
in this world,” was Anne’s comment. Por the likes 
of us can’t get far from the hunger. Ah, no.” 

Ah, no.” Judy took another sip of tea. Ah, no,, 
indeed! ” 

Men are the divils,” cried Lizzie, all suddenly. 

To think o’ the way tlnai James talked! .... It’s 
not true, I tell ye .... I tell ye I’ll niver get mar- 
ried if . . . .” 

Anne and Judy opened eyes of wonder. Lord sees,” 


THE TUEF-CUTTEES 57 

said they; Lord sees! ’’ Then said Anne, in the voice 
of the scorner : 

Ah, quit your foolery, Lizzie Dolan. Troth it’s in 
short clothes ye should be still. You an’ your tantrums, 
an’ your threats, an’ your bleather about niver marryin’ 1 
Mver marry, indeed! Troth, will ye; an’ that before 
harvest next. Here, take another drig o’ the tay an’ 

stop your romancin’ Mopin’, indeed! An’ 

James only jokin’ ye. Mopin’, indeed! An’ you as 
good, a’most, as marrit already, wi’ a snug house an’ 
a bouncin’ boy waitin’ for ye; an’ you not promised to 
him more’n a fortnight ! Come, sit over here, an’ tell us 
about that new dress ye’ll be after gettin’ ; an’ quit your 
pighin’, for God’s sake! Come on, I tell ye.” 

And Lizzie came; within five minutes was herself 
again, bright-eyed, voluble, as full of spirits and life 
as that spring day was full of glory. 

The talk was of butter, eggs, dresses — dresses, for- 
sooth, and all three with only tatters in their ward- 
robes — of their little affairs, pleasures, troubles, of men 
and marriage, and of Lizzie’s coming marriage in par- 
ticular; presently it flagged somewhat, and a pause com- 
ing, Lizzie’s eyes fell upon the sleeping figure of ould 
Eobin. He looked woeful; and at sight of him — at sight 
of his time-beaten face, his ugliness and squalor, his 
open mouth and dribbling chin — the girl shivered in the 
sunshine. Lord, the ugly ould man, he is,” said she; 

the ugly ould sinner ” ; then, a spirit of mischief and 
of the spring being strong in her, reached over and 
softly took the old beaver from Eobin’s head. 

Whisht,” said she, as Anne Daly remonstrated; 


58 


IRISH PASTORALS 


whisht, till I show ye ; and plucking some sprays of 
heather she began decorating the hat. Long pieces she 
fixed all round within the band, and hanging down be- 
hind, and sticking forth the holes on top ; here and there 
on the rim she laid a potato skin, and up the front fas- 
tened the old man’s pipe; then, all being to her fancy, 
gently replaced the hat on Robin’s head and drew back 
tittering. 

Lord, the sight he is, the comical ould sight ! ” cried 
she. Whisht, Anne, whisht ; don’t laugh or you’ll 
wake him.” But already Anne had laughed, and Robin 
was awake. 

He sat forward, blinking and rubbing his eyes. 

Faith,” said he, in a drowsy croak, I — I mis- 

doubt I was asleep — so I was.” 

The women were so near laughter that none dared 
venture an answer. 

Faith,” said Robin again, I must ha’ been asleep, 
so I must.” He yawned wearily and stretched himself; 
then made as if to rise. I’ll have to be stirrin’, so I 
will,” said he. I wonder where that divil of an ass 
is now? Mebbe it’s kickin’ in a bog-hole the crature is.” 

Lizzie choked down her laughter. 

Ah, no, Robin,” said she. Now don’t be stirrin’ 
yet. Sure you’ve time enough; an’ sure there’s the ass 
grazin’ along the pass; an’ ye haven’t had your tay; an’ 
— an’ sure you’ll wait anyway till the men wake up. 
Sure they’d be ojus glad to see ye again,” said Lizzie, 
and at Anne Daly winked most knowingly. 

The old man sank back against the stump. 

^^Very well,” said he; ^Wery well. Sure there’s 


THE TUEF-CUTTEKS 


59 


no hurry, so there’s not. It’s a long day till night 
yit; an’ there’s no one waitin’ yonder for me now. 
Ah, no!” 

Up and down the old man wagged his head; and at 
sight of the dancing heather plumes in his hat Lizzie 
buried face in hands and turned away. 

Aw, Anne dear,” laughed she; Anne dear. I’ll 
die. I’ll die! ” 

Eobin gathered up his knees, clasped them with his 
hands and sat looking towards Thrasna river. Ah, 
no,” he moaned, there’s no one waitin’ for me now.” 

Then Lizzie turned to him. 

Tell me, Eobin,” said she; about what age might 
ye be? ” 

If God spares me. I’ll be seventy-five come next 
Hollentide, so I will. Yis, seventy-five years.” 

It’s a big age,” said Anne Daly; a powerful big 
age.” 

Arrah, not at all,” said Lizzie; sure it’s only a 
trifie, an’ it lyin’ like a feather on him.” She cocked 
her head. I say, Eobin, isn’t it near time ye thought 
o’ marryin’ again? ” 

The old man turned slowly and looked full at Lizzie. 

What’s that? ” said he. 

Aw now, ye heard me well enough.” Lizzie’s 
look and tone were coy. That’s only your little 
way, Eobin. Come, now. Out wi’ it. Who’s the 
lassie? ” 

Is it o’ marryin’ you’re axin’ me?” asked Eobin; 
and before the solemnity of his face Lizzie dropped her 
eyes. 


60 


IRISH PASTORALS 


It is/’ said she. 

Slowly Robin turned away and looked out over the 
heather. 

I was married only once/’ said he, very deliber- 
ately; only once; an’ I wish to God I was married yit, 
for it’s meself is the lonesome man this day.” 

The women looked soberly at each other. Across 
the fire old Daly awoke and sat staring in wonderment 
at Robin’s hat. Mike Brady turned over on his back 
and began to yawn. 

I dunno if ye know it/’ said Robin, turning again 
to Lizzie; but yisterday twelvemonth to a day it was 
that I buried Mary.” 

Lizzie fiushed crimson and cast down her eyes. Ah, 
now,” was all she could say. 

Yisterday twelvemonth to a day,” Robin went on. 
‘‘ An’ would ye believe me, it’s just the same wi’ me the 
day as it was twelve months ago — just as lonesome an’ 
bewildered.” 

Mike Brady sat upright and in sleepy amaze watched 
Robin rise slowly to his feet. 

It’s a mortial curious kind o’ feelin’ comes over a 
man,” said Robin, still very deliberately, and looking 
straight before him, and speaking as if to himself, 
when he loses somethin’ that he’s got used to. If it’s 
only an ould baccy knife he kind o’ frets over losin’ it; 
an’ the longer he had it the more he misses it ; an’ when 
it’s somethin’ livin’ that goes — an’ ould dog mebbe, or an 
ass, or somethin’ — aw, sure, the feelin’s woeful. It’s 
lek as if the world was different, somehow, an’ oneself, 
an’ — an’ iverything. Aw, yis, it’s a mortial curious 


THE TUKF-CUTTEES 


61 


kind o’ feelin’. An’, if so be it’s God’s will that a man 
loses a child, or a sister, or — or ” 

Robin paused, and looking down at his boots, began 
rubbing his chin with his fingers. One or two of the 
potato skins and a spray of heather fell from his hat, 
but he never saw them fall. Like logs the three women 
and the two men sat watching him. James Daly still 
slept. Out in the heather the children were shouting. 
From the fires here and there among the willow clumps, 
came sounds of song and laughter. 

Nigh fifty years,” Robin went on and raised his 
face, I lived wi’ Mary — nigh fifty years; an’ all that 
time, ’cept one day an’ night I spent in Glann witnessin’ 
to a lawsuit, I was niver parted from her. Fifty years 
— sure it must be we got well used to other. Aw ay, 
it must be. Sure it stands to sense that when two people 
ate for fifty years at the same table, an’ work together, 
an’ sleep together, an’ do iverything together, that — 
that one’s not oneself at all but just as much one as 

t’other. Sure it must be Aw, I know it; well 

I know it! ” 

Again Robin paused. James Daly awoke; yawned; 
slowly raised his eyes; all at once caught sight of Rob- 
in’s heather-decked hat. Why — why,” he began; 

what in glory, Robin ” 

Ah, whisht, ye bodach, ye,” snapped Anne his wife; 
whisht wi’ ye.” 

Robin fixed his eyes on Rhamus hill, and went on. 
Ay, but it’s wonderful the grip a woman has on a 
man when he’s lived wi’ her for fifty years. It’s aston- 
ishin’. An’ ye niver know how astonishin’ it is till ye 


62 


IRISH PASTORALS 


lose her. Haw, ye niver know till then. Losin’ anythin’ 
else in the world’s nothin’ to it; nothin’ at all. Ye get 
used to that in a week, or a month or so ; but niver, niver 
do ye get used to th’ other. Mver, niver! Ah, well, 

I know it Twelve months ago an’ a day more, 

I buried Mary. That’s a longish time, you’d think, long 
enough anyway to get used to missin’ her. But, some- 
how, I can’t get used to it. How is it, will ye tell me? 
How does it come that ivery night I start from me sleep 
an’ stretch out me hand to feel if she’s there — an’ she 
isn’t there — an’ ivery night I lie awake from that on till 
mornin’, just lyin’ frettin’ an’ frettin’, an’ thinkin’ an’ 
thinkin’ ? An’ how is it, will ye tell me, that when I’m 
lightin’ the fire o’ mornin’s, or lacin’ me boots, or eatin’ 
me breakfast, or doin’ anythin’ at all, I keep turnin’ me 
head as I used to do when she spoke, or I heard her 
foot? An’ what is it sends me wanderin’ about the 
house as if I was lookin’ for somethin’ — lookin’ for 
somethin’, I dunno what? An’ then I ramble about the 
fields, an’ do this an’ that, an’ see this an’ that, an’ all 
the time me mind is wanderin’ an’ I go moonin’ an’ 
stumblin’ about just as if I was lookin’ for a thing I’d 
dropped. What makes me carry on like that now? An’ 
then I come back; an’ when I lift the latch somehow 
there’s a kind o’ dread on me, for I know the house is 
empty as the grave, an’ I know I’ll keep bearin’ things, 

an’ imaginin’ things, an’ doin’ quare things Aw, 

it’s mighty curious, ojus strange. An’ through it all 
I know I’m foolish — sure I know it. I know she’s dead, 
an’ buried; an’ I know I’ll niver see her in this world 
again; an’ I keep tryin’ to get used to it, an’ tryin’ to 


THE TURF-CUTTEES 


63 


make the best o’ things, seein’ ’twas God’s will an’ can’t 
be helped — but it’s no use, no use. I can’t forget 
things; I can’t get used to the loneliness; an’, for all 
I know, if I was to live to be a hundred it’d be just the 
same, an’ I’d be as lonely then as I am this mortial day. 
I’d go home then, just as I’ll go home the day, knowin’ 
that there’s an empty house waitin’ for me, an’ a dark 
hearth; an’ I’d go moonin’ about, an’ in an’ out, an’ up 
an’ down, just as if I was hopin’ to see someone or tryin’ 
to find somethin’. An’ the foolishness of it, sirs — the 
foolishness of it! Fer, sure, there’s nothin’ to be found, 
nothin’ in the world; an’ there, starin’ me in the face 
iver an’ always, is Mary’s ould chair, an’ there’s her 
boots, an’ her shawl, an’ her specs — an’ the chair’s 
empty, an’ the boots, an’ iverything. Ay, iverything’s 
empty — house an’ all, house an’ all ... . an’ it’s me- 
self only feels like a ghost in it.” 

Robin stopped and stood rubbing his chin; then turned 
to Lizzie. So you’ll see,” he said, with a flickering 
smile, you’ll see that mebbe, when all’s considered, 
I’ve had enough o’ marryin’ to do my time.” 

Ah, God help ye,” moaned Anne Daly; ‘‘ God help 
your ould heart 1 ” 

But Lizzie, her face all wet with tears, ran to Robin. 
Wait, Robin,” said she, and deftly began plucking 
away the sprigs of heather from his hat; wait, me 
son, till I fix the band on that ould hat o’ yours — sure 

it’s all crooked, an’ up an’ down There, now it’s 

better; an’ may God forgive me this day! ” 

Forgive ye for what, child? ” asked Robin. 

Aw, for me sins,” cried Lizzie; an’ may He smile 


64 


lEISH PASTOEALS 


on yourself all your days But aisy, now, till I 

fix ye up a bit. Aisy now,’’ said she and knotted the 
old man’s scarf; then buttoned his waistcoat; then 
stooped and laced up his boots; last of all took him by 
the hand. An’ now come away wi’ me,” said she, till 
I help ye catch the ass, an’ get the scraws for the fire. 
Come away.” 

I will,” said Eobin. Good-bye, Anne, ye girl, ye 
— an’ J ames — an’ all. God keep yer, childer.” 

Good-bye to ye, Eobin,” answered Anne Daly, and 
spoke for the rest. Good-bye, me son, an’ may the 
angels keep ye and comfort ye.” 

So, hand in hand, Eobin and Lizzie started; and just 
as they set foot on the heather, Lizzie turned head and 
fiashed a look at James Daly where he sat staring into 
the fire. 

An’ now, James Daly,” cried she; now what have 
ye got to say for yourself? ” 


THE MOWERS 



\ 






\ 



f 



{ 


i 


• t 




























I 


P ETER JARMIN stepped out upon the street and 
pulled tight the door behind him, yawned heav- 
ily and stretched wearily, blinked at the sky and 
looked out across the misty hills towards the mountains; 
then stumbled listlessly through a bedraggled scattering 
of hungry fowls, entered the byre and came forth with 
a scythe, shouldered it and went round the cabin up 
along the hill. 

It was yet early morning — six o’clock or thereabouts 
— and, though the sun was high, upon hill and hollow 
still lay heavy the grey wonder of the dew. Like spring 
frost it lay, or air grown visible, sparkling and flashing 
on the pastures. Through it Peter’s feet went trailing, 
leaving a long track along the hillside. It washed his 
boots to the ankles and soaked the ragged bottoms of 
his trousers; the rushes were bowed under it, the whins 
set as with diamonds; but Peter, burdened with his 
scythe, trudged on not heeding and hardly seeing. His 
shoulders drooped, his eyes stared flxedly at the grass 
before him. He looked hungry, weary, half-asleep. No 
more than alive he was, that morning in July, as slowly 
he went dragging through the dew across the silent 
flelds. 

He came to a lane, struck the broad road; in a while 
turned up a horeen and stopped at the door of a cottage 
that stood among poplars and boor-trees back on the 
• 67 


68 


lEISH PASTORALS 


first rise of a hill. There were fowls on the street and 
goats and a dog, but the door was closed and the chim- 
ney smokeless; and at that Peter sniffed disdainfully, 
swore viciously and vividly, then hammered on the 
panels with clenched fist. Hughy,’’ he shouted; d’ye 
hear me, Hughy? Dang ye for a hosthoon, come out to 
your work! ” 

The dead must have turned at such clatter; and in 
a minute there came from the cottage a sudden stir of 
life, then a clash of voices, then a great shout: All 
right, Peter. Half a minit, Peter. Pm cornin’; I’m 
cornin’.” 

Ay. You’re comin,” snarled Peter; you’re corn- 
in’! An’ high time, troth.” He backed away from the 
— door, turned to face the roadway and stood looking 
sourly out through the rising mists. He seemed mighty 
ill-humoured, that fine morning, did Peter; there was 
viciousness in his very eyes. 

At his back, and behind the door, that stir of life con- 
tinued. Stools clattered, voices rose, boots clumped 
here and there: then, Well, good-bye to ye, Lizzie,” 
came the voice, and quick upon it, the opening of the 
door and the coming of Hughy. 

A very giant looked Hughy, he stepping forth that 
narrow doorway, his eyes blinking at the light, his 
waistcoat unbuttoned, his cap perched askew on his 
tousled hair. Yawning noisily he stretched every mus- 
cle of him; rubbed his ear and stood looking towards the 
mountain. Peter never moved. Slowly Hughy turned 
his eyes and fixed them on the back of Peter’s head. 

It — ” He stopped, and rubbing his ear again stooped 


THE MOWEES 


69 


to tie his boots. It’ll be a brave mornin’, Peter/’ he 
said at last, shyly and with diffidence as might one who 
speaks to a king. 

Then Peter turned, sharp and suddenly, his eyes flash- 
ing scorn. 

I’d be ashamed,” he said; I’d be ashamed. Lyin’ 
in your bed at this hour o’ the day! This is what marry- 
in’s done for ye — this is what comes o’ your foolery? 
Chut!” Peter sniffed, snapped his jaws. Lyin’ in 
your bed — snorin’ in her arms — leavin’ me to come 
dunderin’ at the dure ! Chut ! — I’d be ashamed — I’d be 
ashamed.” And turning on his heel Peter went trudg- 
ing for the road. 

But Hughy only smiled, laughed softly, glanced at 
the little curtained window beyond the door; then 
stepped for his scythe and went swinging down the 
horeen. ^^Poor ould Peter,” he said; ^^poor ould 
Peter. Sure it’s hard he feels it — och, ay! ” And 
Hughy laughed again. 


n 

The two came to the road, turned and faced towards 
Emo. On this side walked Peter, grim and small; on 
that Hughy, big and ruddy. The whole width of the 
road ran broad between them, and across it from one to 
the other passed not so much as a word. Sometimes 
Peter muttered to himself, or flung an oath at the 
hedge; once or twice Hughy broke into dismal whist- 
ling that ended soon and abruptly; but from one to the 


70 


lEISH PASTOEALS 


other went never a word. Peter walked stiffly with his 
face to the road, Hughy strode loosely with his eyes 
roaming the fields; the misty sunlight glorified their 
faces, glistened on the scythe blades, fiung long shadows 
back upon the dust. 

They met two or three — one hastening to a fair, a 
girl going barefoot for the cows, a lad carrying eggs 
to the shop above — nodded, passed the time of day, went 
on. Some of the houses scattered along the wayside 
were still asleep, some just waking; here a mule went 
plodding round before the churn-shaft, there a woman 
in a white nightcap was feeding the chickens, here and 
there half-clad men stood shouldering the doorpost and 
sleepily eyeing the world through clouds of tobacco 
smoke. All the fields, were heavy with dew; in the 
valleys and upon the hills were tatters of mist; not 
yet had my Lord the mountain revealed himself; the 
air held a whiff of cold, a blur of damp; upon the 
countryside still lay brooding the dull silence of the 
night. 

On they went, out of Gorteen, into Lackan; and pass- 
ing Lackan lough Hughy put down his scythe, left the 
road and came back with glistening face and dripping 
head. ThatTl kill the sleep in me. Pm thinkinV’ he 
said with a laugh, and shortened his stride, and wrung 
his hair, and glanced across at his partner. But Peter, 
still faithful to his own side of the road, only trudged 
on, nor looked round, nor spoke; and it was no less than 
an oath that he muttered in his teeth. 

At Stonegate they turned down towards Emo ; turned 
again at foot of the hill, went along the bog lane, across 


THE MOWEES 


71 


between the potato fields and came soon to a meadow 
lying lush and wet in the valley between Khamus and 
Emo. Here lay their day’s work; here in sight of the 
purpling heather, and close to the unceasing rustle of 
the wheat, and facing the vivid beauty of the mounded 
hills. 

Quickly they got to work. Upon a ditch they laid 
their coats, tightened belts, loosened shirt necks, buckled 
knee straps; then out came the whet-stones, backs were 
bent, the valley rang with the music of the scythes. 
Ting-a-lingy sang the blades, ling-ling ^ ting-a-ling; then 
paused a minute, fiashed, swooped, went swishing 
through the grass. 

With knees bent, toes turned inwards, back and 
shoulders twisting awkwardly, Peter went jerking along 
a swath, his feet dragging a ragged trail upon the stub- 
ble, head wagging stifily, arms outstretched and pluck- 
ing like things of wood. Some paces behind came 
Hughy, swinging along with a mighty swagger, sweep- 
ing down the grass as one might switch thistle heads, 
tumbling it at Peter’s heels as a wave strews seaweed 
along the beach. Come,” he seemed to say, and 
crouched in his might, out o’ me way there ! Come 
down, come down — an’ look out for your heels, Peter 
Jarmin! ” Only Hughy never spoke a word, or Peter; 
never looked in each other’s eyes as they turned for a 
new swath, never passed a word as they stood rubbing 
and whetting, nor sang as they worked, nor whistled. 
Like two machines they went up and down, and stood 
sharpening, and bent again, and went swishing along — 
and for companion of toil had silence. Eor Hughy had 


72 


mSH PASTOEALS 


little to say and could not say it, and Peter had much 
and dared not. They were waiting — waiting. 

Then all suddenly, whilst you might clap your hands 
almost, the sun cried himself King and the morning 
broke. Prom the valleys and hilltops all the mists were 
licked up. Just a roll and a scattering arid there stood 
my Lord the mountain smiling in his freshness and radi- 
ance. In a flash the spell of night was broken and all 
the country was av/ake, lying there in its gay serenity 
laughing up at the sun. Prom everywhere came the 
sounds of life. Above in Emo was a great commotion 
of work. On the flelds, spreading gaily now from hill 
to hill, stood out all suddenly the shapes of horses and 
men, of cattle and sheep ; calves were lowing, dogs bark- 
ing, children shouting; the dewdrops dried on the 
hedges, a wind sprang from the west and shook the 
meadow dry. Up and down went the swallows, flashing 
and twittering. The scythes found a merrier note, a 
sharper twang as they met the grass. Even the mowers, 
down in their stolid depths, felt something stir respon- 
sive to that sudden change in things. Peter, trudging 
down between the swaths, pushed back his hat, drew 
a hand across his forehead, looked slowly across the 
shining countryside and grunted unwilling approval. 
Hughy, striding at Peter’s side, raised face to the sky, 
turned this way towards the mountain, and that towards 
Ehamus hill; gave his head a jerk at last and cried to 
himself that the change was wonderful. He was awake 
now, wide awake, just as the big world was awake and 
all upon it — Peter and all. His eye took a merrier 
twinkle; his face found its old ruddy freshness; in the 


THE MOWERS 


73 


swing of arms and shoulders, and the vigour of his stride, 
seemed typified the insolent strength and freedom of 
the morning. “ Ah, dang me, but it’s the powerfullest 
weather,” said he, and laid down his scythe, and tight- 
ened his belt, and looked towards home and Lizzie; 

the powerfullest I ever seen. Man, but it’ll be a 
scorcher the day,” said Hughy; then lifted scythe and 
fell in upon a new swath at Peter’s heels. 

But Peter gave no sign that he had heard, none that 
he wished to speak. Like a thing of wood, that creaked 
almost as it went, he jerked up the meadow, turned and 
trudged down between the swaths, bent and went jerk- 
ing back. And patiently, silently, Hughy swung up be- 
hind him, turned and strode down beside him. They 
were awake, were the mowers, wide awake; but speech 
still slept within them waiting for the awakener to come. 
Is she never coming? thought Hughy, and for the twen- 
tieth time looked toward the hills; is she never coming? 
She scoffed me, thought Peter, and in his mind’s eye 
had view of a wind-swept field and of a scornful woman 
standing back along the ridges; she scoffed me, thought 
Peter and set his lips; she laughed at me an^ called me 
names; she threw me over an^ chose — him! Peter’s 
head jerked backwards. But wait,” said Peter within 
himself; just wait! ” 


in 

^^An’ what ails him?” 

I dunno. He’s — he’s unknowable the day.” 


Y4 


lEISH PASTOEALS 


Ye tell me lie hasn’t spoke a word to ye all these 
hours?” 

‘‘ Divil a word since he tongued me yonder on the 
street.” 

Tongued ye? An’ for what? ” 

Ach, an’ didn’t ye hear him? For bein’ late in 
risin’, it was. ^ This is your marryin’/ says he; ^ lyin’ 

there snorin’ in her arms ’ But sure ye heard 

him?” 

Lizzie laughed, and her eyes twinkled merrily as they 
turned and rested on Peter jerking along out in the 
meadow. She was sitting in shade of the hedge, her 
back to the ditch, knees up-gathered and clasped with 
both hands, a shawl round her shoulders and on her head 
a pink sunbonnet. Near her sat Hughy upon the stub- 
ble; beside him a basket and a tin can, in this hand a 
mug of lukewarm tea, in that a slice of bread fried and 
browned in bacon fat. Ah, sure,” said she and laughed 
again; sure now.” She glanced at Hughy; looked at 
Peter; laughed once more. That’s what ails him?” 
said she; then raised her voice and called: Peter — 
Peter Jarmin. I say, Peter P No answer. Ye hear 
me, Peter? Still no answer — and from Hughy no 
more than a grunt. Peter called Lizzie, softly, lur- 
ingly. Hoi-i-iy Peter P 

Out in the meadow Peter turned, looked up the field 
and down the field, this way and that; then bent his 
back and went on mowing. 

Peter, Hoi-i-i, Peter,^- Lizzie laughed softly — 
and Hughy with her. Hoi-i-i, Peter, 

Out in the meadow Peter turned again, played again 


THE MO WEES 


Y5 


his little comedy of pretence; shaded his eyes at last and 
looked at Lizzie. Well/^ he shouted. What is it? 

Aren^t ye cornin’ to rest yourself? ” Peter looked 
away. ‘‘ Sure it’s breakfast time.” Peter stood looking 
towards Emo, frowning and rubbing his ear. Och, 
aren’t ye cornin’ to see me, Peter? ” 

Out in the meadow Peter laid down his scythe, pulled 
a pipe from his pocket; came stepping clumsily towards 
the hedge over the swaths. The sun fell clear upon 
him, making him look small and stern and ugly. He 
seemed all patches and hair and wrinkles, thought Lizzie, 
as narrowly she watched him with shaded eyes; looked 
old and ugly. 

Good mornin’ to ye, Peter. An’ how’s yourself 
now? ” 

Mornin’.” A finger groping in his pipe-bowl and 
his hat over his eyes, Peter came on across the swaths; 
turned and sat down beside Hughy with his back to the 
ditch. Pulling out a clasp knife and a tin tobacco box 
he fell to redding his pipe into his palm. His lips were 
set. He took no heed of Hughy, none the slightest of 
Lizzie. She looked at him awhile, bending forward and 
peering round her sunbonnet; then nudged Hughy with 
her elbow and nodded at the basket; then glanced at 
Peter; then, with a laugh at Hughy’s look of puzzle- 
ment, put her mouth to his ear and whispered softly. 

^^Eh?” Hughy looked at the basket, the can, at 
Peter. Ah, to be sure,” he said; to be sure. Arrah, 
what ails me at all, at all? I say, Peter — Peter, me 
son — there’s more here nor Pd ate in twice. Come now, 
help me wi’ it ” 


76 


lEISH PASTOEALS 


Peter turned slowly; looked at Hughy, caught the 
twinkle in Lizzie’s eye. I want nothin’/’ said he; and 
again, in face of Hughy’s persuasion, I want nothin’, 
I say ” ; and once more, even as Hughy put can and 
basket at his elbow, I tell ye Pll take nothin’ from 
ye — ^not a morsel.” 

Hughy leant back against the ditch, laughed, brought 
forth his pipe. Aw, very good,” said he. But Lizzie 
bent forward, flung back her sunbonnet and set her face 
at Peter. Then you’ll take it from me, Peter? ” said 
she, very softly, in the voice of the sootherer. “ Ah, 
now. From me — sure you’ll take it from me? ” 

I want nothin’ — I’ll take nothin’ — I tell ye I had 
me breakfast ” 

Ach, but a morsel like that, Peter? An’ a drig o’ 
tay? Sure you’ll take it from me? ” 

Peter looked at the can and basket. He was dubious. 
Hunger was flghting pride in him, and Lizzie’s voice 
came cheering hunger on. What if he did have a bite 
and sup? What if he did do as she asked? Sure he 
owed her nothing, owed Hughy nothing .... and 
’twas a long day to dinner-time. Involuntarily — driven 
by hunger, you might say — his hand reached for the 
basket. There now! ” cried Lizzie. Sure I knew he 
would.” And the thing was done. 

An elbow on her knee and chin in hand, Lizzie sat 
looking out across the meadow and the wheat towards 
Bilboa and the roofs of Bunn. Beside her, Hughy lay 
smoking and Peter sat munching and sipping; but it was 
not of them, not of their present selves and doings she 
sat thinking, but of both as she had seen them one day 


THE MOWEES 


77 


four months ago, back there near the road, in a field 
then wind-swept and bare and now green and lush with 

planted crop Ah, the day that had been; the 

dreary bitter day. How well she remembered it — the 
cruel wind, the black sky, the naked fields. She saw it 
all. There was the long ridge with Hughy and Peter 
working upon it; there was the fire by the ditch, there 

was herself with an apron full of seed-cuts The 

temper she had been in that dayj the miserable hu- 
mour; the sharp things she said to Hughy, the bitter 
things to Peter, the way she laughed and jeered at the 
man when he came down the ridge and asked her to 
have him. To have him? Lord, Lord! Poor, poor Peter; 
he felt it sore. But what else could she do? Marry 
Peter — ould, ugly Peter? Aw, sure! .... Ah, the 
day that had been; the way it went; the way it ended. 
Could she ever forget that walk along the road, with 
Hughy stammering, and herself pretending not to un- 
derstand, him this side and she that — and his arms 
round her at last in the middle of the road. ’Twas 

lovely. She could never forget it; never, never 

And now the sun was shining, and she was married, and 
all was well. She was content, happy as the day was 
long. She felt ready to jump up, race through the 

swaths and tumble in the grass Only Hughy 

would laugh at her, and Peter would sneer. Peter — 
Peter? Lord, the ugly man he was! Look at him sit- 
ting there munching, all skin and bone, hair and wrin- 
kles. Ugh! Suppose instead of marrying Hughy she 

had married Peter? Ugh! It made her shiver 

Still she pitied the man. She had been short with him 


78 


lEISH PASTOEALS 


and very cruel; she had cut him to the quick. He had 
felt it sore; he was feeling it now. The poor man, the 
poor lonely man! Look at him, all skin and bone, all 
withered and wrinkles. Twenty years more than his 
age he looked. Poor, poor Peter! 

“ Ah, but it’s the beautiful day,” said Lizzie, looking 
round the fields. “It’s lovely. Sure it’s well to be 
alive.” Hughy, lying against the ditch with his hat 
over his eyes, grunted a word of assent. Peter drained 
the tea can, set it on the stubble; looked as though he 
had not heard. Lizzie turned. “ Isn’t it, Peter? ” she 
said. 

“What?” 

“ Well to be alive.” 

“ Supposin’ you’re not dead — ” Peter sniffed in his 
sardonic way “ — an’ not married,” he added, with a 
turn of his eye. 

Lizzie laughed softly; nudged Hughy; laughed again. 

“ Ay, indeed,” she said; “ ay, indeed. Well, maybe 
you’re right, Peter.” 

“ I know it,” Peter snapped. “ I know it.” 

“ Is it about the marryin’ ye know, Peter? ” Lizzie’s 
voice was silken. “ Or is it the bein’ dead? ” 

“ I was niver dead,” came back scornfully. “ I thank 
God I was niver married.” 

Again Lizzie laughed and nudged Hughy. She 
paused a minute; then: 

“ But what d’ye know about marryin’, Peter, if ye 
niver tried it? ” 

“Know? Know!” Peter flashed round. “ What is 
it I don’t know? Haven’t I eyes? Haven’t I ears? 


THE MOWEKS 


79 


Isn’t it enough to hear the impudence o’ some people, 
an’ see the brazen faces o’ them, to make ye know too 
much? Phat! ” Peter sneered and scoffed. Marry- 
in’? May the Lord keep me from it.” 

This was the real Peter at last, the man with a snarl 
and a snap, whose tongue had an edge and a flash, who 
schemed hard, fought hard, never forgot. He had found 
himself with a vengeance. The awakener had come 
over the hills, and across the potato fields, rousing 
speech from its sleep. Ill-humoured he might still 
be, revengeful and spiteful; but dumb he was no 
longer, nor should be again that day. Marryin’ ? ” 
cried he — ah, so bitterly. May the Lord keep me 
from it! ” 

Hughy raised a corner of his hat, turned and looked 
up at Lizzie. Lizzie round the edge of her sunbonnet 
flashed a twinkling look down at Hughy. Never heed 
the marly ifs all talh, said Hughy’s eyes. J ust lie there 
an^ listen, flashed Lizzie’s in reply. So Hughy smiled 
below his hat; and Lizzie laughed within her sunbonnet, 
and looked at Peter, and said: 

It isn’t always, Peter, you’d be talkin’ like that, 
now.” 

Isn’t it, Mrs. Pitch? I’m thankful to ye.” 

You’re welcome, Mr. Jarmin.” Lizzie paused a mo- 
ment, taking breath as it were after this measuring of 
swords; then crouched and thrust. An’, if ye ask me, 
it’s mighty little help you’ll be needin’ from the Lord to 
keep ye from the marryin’ — ay, mighty little.” 

I niver asked ye,” came back. I asked ye 
nothin’,” 


80 


IRISH PASTORALS 


Didn’t ye, now? ” Lizzie flushed and warmed. 

Well, ye got it all the same.” 

An’ I don’t thank ye.” Peter’s voice was cold as 
steel, as hard and brittle. He sat drawing at his pipe, 
knees pulled up, arms crossed upon them, his eyes look- 
ing straight out across the swaths. I don’t thank ye,” 
said he, for what I don’t want.” 

Then don’t,” cried Lizzie, sharply, viciously; 

don’t. I want your thanks as little as I want any- 
thing belongin’ to ye. I want them as little 

Hughy put out a hand and clutched Lizzie’s wrist. 

Whisht, woman,” he said; ach, whisht!” 

But Lizzie was roused, her tongue keen for the fray. 
She twisted from Hughy’s grip, leant forward, flxed 
Peter with flashing eyes. I want them as little,” she 
said, as I wanted them one day four months ago back 
there in a field be the road. Ye hear that, Peter Jarmin 
— ye hear that?” 

Peter looked at the sky, round at the heather, up 
towards Emo. I hear it,” said he. It’d be hard 
not to hear — it’s just what I’d expect to hear from a 
woman.” He sniffed; looked at his pipe; smiled in his 
steely way. 

Again Hughy caught Lizzie by the arm and whispered 
persuasively; and again Lizzie twisted free, scouting in- 
terference. To be spoken to like that — herself a decent 
married woman! 

Yis,” cried she, with a fling and a toss; ^^yis; an’ 
there’s plenty more, Peter Jarmin, ye can hear from her 
— plenty more. You an’ your woman! You an’ your 
man! Look at him — aw, sakes alive, look at the man! 


THE MOWERS 


81 


Look at himself sittin’ there askin’ the Lord to keep 
him from marryin’ — himself that a beggarwoman 
wouldn’t wink at — himself that would ha’ given his own 
two eyes, four months ago, if I’d only listened to 
him. Look at him,” cried Lizzie and pointed a quiver- 
ing finger at Peter’s withered face. Look at him,” 
she cried, scorning pitilessly. 

Hughy sprang upright, grasped a boot in either hand 
and sat looking perplexedly at the. stubble. He disliked 
these scenes ; all this rubbing of old sores pained him to 
the heart. But what could he do ? He looked at Peter, 
sitting there by the ditch and stolidly eyeing the hills; 
then turned to Lizzie, a piteous look in his slow gray 
eyes. Ach, whisht, woman,” he pleaded; woman 
dear, have wit.” 

But Lizzie was stone to plea or pity. I’ll not,” she 
snapped; I’ll not whisht, Hughy.” 

Then Peter turned his face. Arrah, why would ye 
stop her, Hughy? ” said he, his voice doleful with com- 
plaint. Sure the more she says the more I’m thank- 
ful that the Lord kept me from marryin’ her. Let her 
talk, man; let her talk.” 

That was a merciless thrust, and for a moment Lizzie 
was at a loss to meet it. Her first impulse of defence 
urged the rushing hysterically at Peter’s face; but she 
crushed that down, sat gasping a moment, then, whilst 
you might wink an eye, transformed herself. Her eyes 
softened and her face; her hands loosened, her body 
relaxed, and she rose, stepped a little way from the 
ditch and turned. 

Peter Jarmin,” said she, a hand on her hip the other 


82 


IKISH PASTOEALS 


hanging free, I ax your pardon. ’Twas the foolish 
word I was sayin’. You’re an ould man an’ I ought 
to have respected your gray hairs. I take back all I’ve 
said — ivery word — an’ I give ye me pity in its place.” 
How softly fell the honey-bitter words; how deeply 
cut the silken lash. ’Twas mean o’ me to reproach 
ye for what happened between us — both of us did what 
we couldn’t help. Ay, we did; we did. You were too 

ould, I was too young — sure that was all ” 

Lizzie fell to looping the strings of her sunbonnet; 
her brows rose slightly, her voice took its everyday 
note. How’s all at home, Peter? ” said she. I’m 
hopin’ the ould mother is bravely? ” 

Peter sat looking up at her, pulling at an empty pipe 
and sitting crouched over his up-gathered knees. But 
he answered not a word; only sat looking grimly up at 
this — this viper of a woman. And yet — yet how hand- 
some she was ! 

It’ll be powerful lonely yonder at home, I’m think- 
in’,” Lizzie continued and plucked at her apron, all be 
your lone selves. Aw, sure an’ it must. Hughy an’ 
meself get it dull enough at times for all that we’re 
young an’ merry — don’t we Hughy? — but what in sor- 
rows’ name it must be for two ould people I can’t im- 
agine. I’d be seein’ ghosts an’ frettin’ me heart out all 
the night. Ah, well”; Lizzie sighed, looked round the 
field; it’s always the way — there’s always someone un- 
der a cloud to make up for them that’s in the sunshine. 
Ah, sure. Some day maybe it’ll be me own turn — but no 
matter, no matter. God knows I pity ye, Peter J armin, 
feelin’ as I do. Sure I feel this minute as if I could 


THE MO WEES 


83 


niver be ould. Dear knows, I think there can’t be 
as happy a woman in all the world. Not one; not 
one.” 

Lizzie sighed contentedly; then picked up the can and 
basket, hung them on her arm and prepared to go. 

Well, I suppose I must be for home,” she said; aw 
yis. There’s the dinner to be gettin’ for ye, Hughy, 
so I’ll have to be steppin’. Take good care o’ yourself, 
an’ don’t be workin’ Peter so hard — sure it’s cruel to 
be drivin’ ould age too fast. Good-bye to ye both.” 
And away down the swaths tripped Lizzie, singing softly 
as she went. 

Then Hughy rose, stretched, went striding towards 
his scythe. But Peter sat on awhile, crouched over his 
knees and looking after Lizzie. An ould man,” he 
muttered; an ould man! That’s what she called me — 
that’s what she called me again. An ould man — an 
ould man Aw, the divil! ” 


IV 

The morningwore on. Slowly the sun climbed up and 
up, waxing brighter and hotter with every stride. The 
wind came in languid puffs, whispering among the 
wheat, dallying with the grass, sighing itself to sleep 
against the hedges. All the countryside was full of life, 
colour; the air was wondrous clear; you could see the 
houses upon the mountain, the roofs of Bunn, the very 
stones in Ehamus castle ; and away up into the blue you 
looked, away beyond the sun. From the heather came 


84 


IRISH PASTORALS 


a murmur of voices and a sound of whistling, from the 
road a dull rumble of carts; here and there among the 
hills a mowing machine went whirring; up in Emo dogs 
were barking, fowls cackling, voices rising noisily; and 
here a cow stood lowing, and there a donkey braying, or 
a shot rang out, or an oar clanked, or one went singing 
lustily across the fields. All was green and fresh, cheer- 
ful and sunny; you looked at the hills and they were 
shining, at the mountain and it stood blue, at the valleys 
and they lay fiowing with colour — purple upon the 
heather, brown along the meadows, silvern where the 
river ran, bright green in the patches of crop and pas- 
ture, sea-green upon the hedges, sage-green among the 
rushes and the willows upon the peat-banks. It was a 
king of days — a day through which a man might go and 
say that he had lived. 

Out beyond the swaths the mowers toiled on, 
smitten pitilessly by the sun. Both were stripped 
to the shirt and trousers, neck-bands open, sleeves 
rolled high, hats pushed back upon nape and crown. 
Hughy’s shirt was wet below the armpits, soaked about 
the neck and waist, clinging tight to his back as a cotton 
skin ; but Peter’s flapped dry as a bone. When Hughy, 
turning for a new swath, wiped his brow his arm glis- 
tened from wrist to elbow; but Peter’s scraped over the 
parched wrinkles with a withered sound of dryness. 
The sun sucked at Peter unavailingly, warmed him as 
it might warm a stone, wrought nothing but freckles on 
the brown leanness of his arms; but Hughy it smote, 
working in him riot and ferment, boiling his blood, bak- 
ing his bones, making him smoke along the stubble. 


THE MOWEES 


85 


They worked hard, stopping only to whet scythes, or 
trudge to the drinking can, or turn down between the 
mounded rows, their feet crushing the eyes of fallen 
daisies, pressing the life from tumbled thistle and 
meadow-sweet, driving corncrakes in panic through the 
grass or crushing wounded frogs into the stubble. 
The burden of work and of the day was heavy, but they 
bore it unmurmuringly; accepting it as they accepted 
most things — hunger and cold, pain and trouble, life 
and death — with an air of sullen indifference, of philo- 
sophic resignation to the inevitable — the inevitable be- 
fore which your sapient ran cheerfully nor lingered to 
be kicked. They looked out upon the glories of earth 
and sky, the wonders of sunshine and shade, with in- 
different eyes, seeing only what a thousand times they 
had seen, and knew by heart, and hoped by God’s mercy 
to see often again. It was just the trees with them, 
the crops, the grass, the hills and the cattle, the valleys 
and the meadows, the sun that shone and the men that 
worked. ’Twas a grand day for work, so it was — and 
God be thanked. ’Twas powerful fine the weather was 
— and God send the spell might last till the meadow was 
won. ’Twas odious hot the sun was — and sure it was 
getting high, and coming near twelve o’clock and time for 
a rest. So they swung, and sharpened, and trudged, 
and moiled; and now thought it time for a smoke or a 
drink, and now time to tighten a belt or to rub down 
and sharpen land Time rolled on, and Death came nearer, 
and the Earth spread out her bravery, and upon one or 
other did the mowers waste never a thought. 

They talked as they worked of this trifle and of 


86 


IRISH PASTORALS 


that — of the price of pork and blitter^ the results of 
potato spraying, the latest countryside scandal, the new- 
est development in Imperial politics; and always was 
Peter Sir Oracle, and seldom did Hughy add to the 
conversation more than his yea and nay. Over his 
shoulder did Peter fling his dicta, turning his head a 
little and twisting his lips at snap of jaw; and stolidly 
Hughy trudged on, moon-face to the grass, eyes on his 
flashing blade, smiling at Peter’s cackling, answering 
whenever he might. Aw, ay,” said Hughy; aw just 
so ” : and away went Peter, careering on the pinions of 
speech, shouting and spouting, trying his hardest to 
drown thought in a torrent of words. But sometimes, a 
pause coming, up flared thought, and Peter was mum- 
bling: An ould man; an ould man Aw, the 

viper ! ” And, even as the sun waxed, so did thought 
flare the brighter and oftener, till at last his ears surged 
with his own mumblings, and Lizzie’s face burnt scorn- 
ful before him, and with set lips he went jerking along, 
plucking murderously at the very daisies. An ould 
man,” snarled he; an ould man. . . . Ah, the viper! ” 
And so the morning grew. 

V 

Then I’d make her, Hughy Pitch; I’d make her 
heed me. D’ye think I’d stand any of her nonsense, 
if I’d chance to be in your place ? Phat — not me ! D’ye 
imagine I’d lie there bearin’ her throw her divilments 
at me friends an’ neighbours? Phat — not me! Aw, be 
the Lord, but I’d teach her — I’d teach her! ” 


THE MOWEKS 


87 


It was high noon, and, in shade of an oak that stood 
out in the meadow, the mowers were resting. Hughy, 
his back against the tree, legs crossed and arms folded, 
sat looking out across the heather, his eyes seeing noth- 
ing, lips hardly moving round his pipe shank. Close 
by, squat on the stubble, back hunched, head twisted, 
eyes gleaming, Peter sat glaring at Hughy. Aw, 
be the Lord, but Fd teach her,’^ he cried; Pd 
teach her! 

Hughy answered nothing. Peter glared, sniffed dis- 
dainfully; spread a hand. 

I tell ye again, Hughy Pitch, that Fd make her 
heed me. If so be she dared to say what fell from her 
there be the ditch this mornin’, I tell ye she’d say it 
once but she’d niver say it again. Be the king,” cried 
Peter, I’d wollop her!” 

Hughy looked slowly round, hooked a finger about 
his pipe and drew it from his lips. Would ye now? ” 
said he, with a nod. 

Yis I would — be the king, but I would! ” 

I know.” Again Hughy nodded in his grave way. 

An’ for what would ye? ” 

For what? For what! ” Peter’s voice came shrill- 
ing. Heavenly hour, is it a fool ye are? For what? 
ye say; an’ you listenin’ to her yourself! Didn’t ye 
hear — didn’t ye hear? Or were ye asleep? ” 

I heard,” said Hughy. 

^^Well? Weil!” 

An’ I heard you, Peter.” Hughy paused; consid- 
ered a moment; looked away. I heard yoUj Peter; 
an’ if ye want me opinion o’ things I’d answer, that 


88 


IRISH PASTORALS 


ye got no more than ye earnt. Ye were as bad as her 
— mebbe ye were worse.’’ 

Had Hughy been pronouncing from the Bench his 
judgment had not been given with greater weight of de- 
liberation; and hearing it Peter blazed to sudden wrath, 
twisted round on his knees and leant toward Hughy. 

“WoTSCy ye say?” Peter spat out the words. 

Worse nor her! ” Hughy did not answer. Worse,” 
cried Peter; worse nor her that gibed at me, an’ 
scorned me, an’ called me — ” Peter stopped abruptly; 
then moistened his lips and stretched an arm. You’ll 
answer me just this one thing, Hughy Fitch,” he said, 
slowly, almost solemnly; did ye hear her callin’ me — 
over there be the ditch, this very mornin’ — did ye hear 
her callin’ me an’ ould man? Answer me, Hughy 
Fitch.” 

I did.” 

An’ ye call me worse nor her ! ” 

A slow light of laughter shone in Hughy’s eyes. He 
blinked solemnly at his boots; but said nothing. 

Mebbe — mebbe you’d be agreein’ wi’ her?” 
Peter’s face shot forward; his voice held a sinister note 
of warning. Mebbe you’d be agreein’ wi’ her?” 
said he. 

But Hughy was master of the moment; ready too 
with an answer which more than once already, back 
within those four months of Peter’s brooding, had 
stayed his wrath. 

Well no,” drawled he; hardly that. I’d say no 
more, Peter, nor that ye were past your youth. An ould 
man? Naw — naw. I’d not say that.” 


THE MOWEES 


89 


The crisis seemed passed. Peter drew in his face; 
sat back on his heels; rubbed his chin with dubious 
thumb and forefinger. The answer was satisfying; but 
he had heard it before; and — and .... Ah, there 
were other things that could never be satisfied. 

I know/’ said he; then, in a fiash: but you’d listen 
to her tollin’ it to me. Ay, you’d listen to her] you’d 
lie yonder an’ hear her an’ niver lift a finger. Naw, 
ye wouldn’t, Hughy Fitch.” Out flashed Peter’s hands. 

I tell ye she’s a liar. I tell ye I’m no ould man. I 
tell ye I’m as good as you, any day — an’ better, 
an’ better! Look at me.” Peter spread his scraggy 
arms. Look at the work I do.” Peter shot a hand 
towards his scythe : Look at me with ivery hair 
on me head, an’ ivery tooth in me jaw, an’ me able 
to hold me own wi’ the best in the countryside. An’ 
yit — an’ yit she’d call me that; and you’d sit by bearin’ 
her ” 

Then Hughy put away his pipe, pushed back his hat 
and rose. 

I’m weary of ye, Peter,” said he; for you’re talk- 
in’ foolishness. Man, have wit! Suppose she did say 
it to ye? Sure she meant nothin’.” 

But she did. I say she did.” Peter sprang to his 
feet, quick as Jack in a box. I say she meant twice 
as much as nothin’. ’Twas the same word she used, 
back there in the pitaty field, the day I axed her to have 
me — an’ she laughed at me, an’ jeered me, an’ said I was 
only half a man, an’ was only fit to herd ducks — ’twas 
the same word she flung in me face. ^ You’re an ould 
man,’ said she; ^ only an ould man ’ ” 


90 


IRISH PASTORALS 


Ach, have wit, Peter/’ said Hughy. Man alive, 
have sense! ” 

But Peter and wit had parted friends that morning. 
He was brimming with venom. That wound given him 
four months ago by Lizzie, and through her by this big- 
hearted Hughy, was galling still, was wide open again 
and burning sore. He flung out a clenched flst. 

I tell ye she’s a liar,” cried he; I tell ye ” 

Hughy turned quickly. 

I wouldn’t be sayin’ that, Peter,” he said, part 
counselling, part threatening. 

Wouldn’t ye?” Peter craned forward, arms 
straight and rigid, neck a tangle of straining cords. 

Well ril say it, then — an’ to yourself, Hughy Fitch, 
that she fooled into marryin’ her. She’s a liar, I say, 
an’ she’s a . . . .” 

Hughy strode forward, clutched Peter by the shoul- 
der and shook him as a terrier shakes a rat. Take 
back the word,” he growled between his teeth; take 
back the word or, be the livin’ world. I’ll choke your 
breath! ” 

But Peter writhed and snarled; hung limp a mo- 
ment in Hughy’s grip then suddenly plucked himself 
free. 

^^Back?” he shouted. ^^Back! I’ll take back no 
word. I’ll say what I like. Whew-w-w! To blazes 
wi’ you an’ her.” Peter danced up to Hughy, crouching 
and snapping his Angers. That for ye — an’ that — an’ 
that! ” he shrilled, his eyes a blaze of spiteful fury. 

An’ that for her that fooled ye, Hughy Fitch, an’ 
made ye the laughin’ stock o’ the country ” 


THE MOWERS 


91 


Take back the word/’ said Hughy, and clenched his 
fists and strode again; take back the word.” 

Back? Ay; an’ there’s it for ye again/’ cried Peter 
and flung a hand towards Hughy. She’s a liar, I say 
again — a liar — a liar! Ye hear me?” Peter came 
dancing and crouching, a finger crooked before his 
twitching face. Ye hear me? An’ she’s worse nor 
that. She’s a . . . .” 

A mean word of reproach, not nearly the worst in 
the world, but quite the worst that ever in Ireland is 
flung at a woman, was on Peter’s lips, hanging there the 
while he crouched with crooked forefinger watching 
anger gather and deepen on Hughy’s face; hung there 
whilst you might count a score, then, with a splutter 
of defiance, sped for the deep mine of Hughy’s anger. 
Like a flash it fell and quick upon it came the answering 
roar : and Peter was crouching mute, and Hughy coming 
with outstretched arms and his eyes blazing murder. 

She’s a ” cried Peter; then crouched, shrank back, 

whined piteously, turned in a panic and fled. 

Out across the stubble, with Hughy raging at his 
heels, went Peter, bareheaded, gasping, running as for 
dear life. Over the swaths he ran, between the trees, 
down the slope; came to his scythe, snatched it and 
whirled round defiantly. Come on — come on,” he 
cried; then, at sight and sound of Hughy’s onset, flung 
down the scythe and terror-smitten went plunging 
through the meadow. Aw, Lord, Lord,” he chat- 
tered; Lord of Heaven, he’ll murder me! ” 

Pown through the meadow, with Hughy striding 
giant-like behind, sped Peter, hands clenched before 


92 


IKISH PASTOEALS 


him, eyes straining, head twisted towards a shoulder; 
sped through the gap, along by the wheat, into the river 
meadow and there, well-nigh spent, scrambled over a 
ditch, took up a stone and faced about. Idl brain ye,’’ 
he panted; I’ll brain ye— if ye dare to lay a hand on 
me. I’ll — I’ll . . . .” The stone went whizzing, 
crashed into a tree : like a whipped cur Peter bolted for 
the hills, craven fear plucking at his very breath. 

Aw,” he whined; aw. Lord in heaven look down upon 
me ! Help, help ! Murder — murder — murder ! ” 

Up the hill, with Hughy tracking remorselessly in 
his steps, toiled Peter, foam on lips, weariness in his 
bones, despair at his heart. Up — up, he went, slower 
and slower; nearer — nearer, came Hughy, thundering 
and raging; a last effort he made, then, his heart nearly 
bursting, sprawled in the rushes and lay heaving on his 
face. Aw,” he moaned; spare me, spare me! Ah, 
Hughy, Hughy — Hughy, Hughy! Is it me? Is it 
me! . . . 

Hughy took him by the shoulders, turned him over, 
pulled at his arms. Stand up,” he said; stand up, 
ye cur ! ” 

But Peter shrank back shivering. Ah, Hughy — 
Hughy,” he wailed. Is it kill me you’d do? Is it me? 
Is it me! ” 

Stand up, ye cur ! ” 

Ah, no — no. Ah, my God, Hughy! ” 

Stand up, ye snivellin’ cur! ” 

Then Peter stood; and only once did Hughy strike 
him; but the mark of that striking Peter Jarmin will 
carry with him down to his grave. 


THE HAYMAKERS 



I 


THE BIT 0’ PRINT 

W E had come, once more, to the big meadow 
which from the Crockan-foot runs far along 
Thrasna river; and already had we more than 
half of it safely won and gathered. Never before (not 
even in that famous summer, years ago, that saw Jan 
Farmer master in Emo) had haymaking brought fewer 
cares or pleasanter toil. The weather was glorious — 
bright, firm August days; help was plentiful; you had 
but to mow, turn on the swath and carry in: only to 
work and pray God for much of His good sunshine. 

And how we did work in that time of golden weather ! 
Hardly had the mist begun to rise o’ mornings, when 
you heard the traces jingle as the horses went over the 
fields from Emo; like ghosts, you saw them plodding 
home of evenings through the dusk. All day long the 
whirr of the mowing machine, the hum of the tedder, 
and the shouts of young Hal as he sat urging the horses, 
came untiringly over the hills. It was up with the lark, 
wash the sleep from your eyes, thank God for your 
breakfast; then strip like a man, shoulder rake and fork 
and boldly face the big sun. From dew-rise to dew-fall 
that was our day. It was do or die with us; for who 
but a fool ever dallies when the sun chases rain from 
Irish hills? And had not the pigs flown joyfully, so 
said the wise-heads, when last the river meadow was 
made in August? 


95 


96 


lEISH PASTORALS 


At it then, lads, said we; at it with might and main. 
Never heed the morrow: heed you only this glorious 
to-day. See the splendour of it; not a speck in the blue, 
the horizon firm as brass, the sun marching royally for 
his kingdom beyond the mountain. Now, now is the 
time. Four great days already have we had; four days 
yet please God are in store: with a shout then and a 
heart, my lads, with a heart and a shout ! 

So one and all we buckled to. Ah, but we were 
happy; hard as nails, brown as turf, strong as young 
bulls. How we shouted and sang, jibed and cheered; 
how the hills rang with our clamour! It was a very 
feast of work, a mad riot of sweet toil. For months 
had the weather been playing with us; now were we 
flouting it, late and early were stealing marches upon it, 
early and late were making ready for the great time 
when radiantly we should point to work well done and 
jeeringly ask of the enemy to do its worst. 

Yes; that great time was coming: but when? Who 
could tell? Poor Ireland’s weather goddess, even at 
best, was a fickle jade; who could tell what torrents of 
tears lay deep behind the flash of her smile? To-morrow 
it might be pouring; a week hence might see the river 
level with its banks; ten days might go and leave the 
water soaking to the roots of the hills; already that 
cloud, no bigger than a hand, might be gathering on 
the horizon. Who could tell? 

Often we looked for that cloud; often, that day, had 
we turned to the west, dreading to see it: even now, the 
Master, as he stands leaning on his rake, has thought 
of it. He wipes his forehead, turns and looks back on 


THE HAYMAKERS 


97 


the long stretch of clear, yellow stubble. It is good, 
he thinks; very good. Another three days, he thinks, 
and looks towards the mowing machine, would finish all. 
Three days? Will the spell hold for three days? he 
wonders. Warily he eyes the horizon, warily scans the 
sky. Yes, the spell will last; he is sure of it. Softly 
he hums a tune: the next minute at sight of a girl 
coming through the haycocks, throws down his rake, 
seats himself stiffly on a pile of hay and shouts that it 
is tea-time. 

At the word, down went the rakes and forks (for 
what Irishman of worth ever dallies in sight of tay?), 
and from all sides we came flocking in. James Daly, that 
man of wit and wisdom, came hurrying; and with him. 
Fat Anne his wife. Mike Brady the choleric, hastened 
up; little yellow Mrs. Judy at his heels, and wee Johnny 
the gossoon at hers. James Trotter (Wee James once 
and always), now grown thin, and stooped somewhat 
under family cares, slid from a half-built ruck, and, his 
soul thirsting for Congo, came running and wiping his 
mouth; Annie his wife, once Miss Marvin and a Tom- 
boy, now the buxom mother of three, put down the hay- 
twister, took up her baby from its place by a haycock, 
and soberly joined the rest. Hal came swaggering up, 
three dogs at his heel and hat balanced on his crown; 
Jem came jumping the swaths like a steeplechaser; 
oneself strolled soberly in and took one’s place in the 
ring which already had closed round Biddy and her 
basket, and her can of steaming tea. 

The Master pulled off his rush hat and flung it upon 
the hay. 


98 


IKISH PASTOEALS 


Biddy/’ said lie; now, my girl.” 

Ay, slap it out,” went the voices. Fire it round, 
Biddy, agrra.” . . . . ^^ Och, hearts alive, the whiff that 
tay has off it,” said James Daly, as the lid came off 
the can. 

Ay,” said Mike Brady, rubbing his lean jaw; it’s 
as fresh as the inside of a haystack, so it is. Aw, 
hurry up, Biddy me girl, hurry up.” 

So Biddy hurried up; into porringers and mugs emp- 
tied the can, piled bread and butter on the mouth of 
each, and from one to another went tripping and smiling. 

I’m obliged to ye, Biddy; more power to your el- 
bow,” said we; and fell to. The tongues lay silent; 
smack went the lips all round the ring : within five min- 
utes you could not have found near Biddy’s basket 
wherewith to feed a sparrow. 

Well thank God for that,” said we; then wiped our 
lips and lay back for ten minutes’ rest. The men set 
their pipes going; the women fell a-clacking; but the 
Master, who seldom smoked and whose eye was always 
quick for the sight of print, leant forward, pulled the 
paper lining from the tea-basket, and lying back against 
the hay, began to read. His mind was at ease; good 
humour, bred of good tea and good weather, possessed 
his soul; presently he snorted disdainfully, then 
chuckled sardonically, at last broke into a smothered 
laugh. 

For a minute we sat watching him and waiting; then 
spoke Hal. 

Give us a chance, father,” said he. Man, don’t 
keep it all to yourself.” 


THE HAYMAKEES 


99 


Oh, it’s nothing/’ answered the Master; only tom- 
foolery.” 

Again he read; again snorted disdainfully; in a min- 
ute rolled the paper into a ball and flung it out upon 
the stubble. 

It’s tomfoolery,” said he; then pulled his hat over 
his eyes, folded his arms and quickly went fast asleep. 

Mike Brady rose, stepped across the stubble; came 
back with the ball of paper and sat down. 

I’ll be wonderin’ what the Master was snortin’ at,” 
said he; an’ it’s a sin anyway to be wastin’ good print. 
Sure as much as there’s here,” Mike went on, and began 
flattening out the paper upon his knee, ’d keep me in 
readin’ for a whole night; an’ — Aw,” he broke forth; 

aw, look at them! Look at the faces they have on 
on them, an’ the grand dresses, an’ the — Sure it’s great! 
Look, Anne. Look, Judy. Come here, James, ye 
boy ye.” 

James Daly turned over on his knees and peered 
across Mike’s shoulder. Ay,” said he; think o’ that, 
now.” 

Anne his wife, rested a hand on the stubble, leant 
over, glanced at the paper, and drew back with a sniff. 

Phat ! ” said she. Sit where ye are, J udy. Sure 
it is only a piece of a fashion paper he’s got hold of. 
Dear, dear, the ignorence o’ men ! ” 

Mike held the paper — it was a double sheet, with 
plates here and there among the letterpress — at arm’s 
length, peered at it closely, looked at it sideways and 
up and down. 

^^Well, now,” he went on, divil as purty a set o’ 

LofC. 


100 


lEISH PASTORALS 


women as them I iver seen before. There’s one there 
— that one, James,” and Mike laid a thumb on her classic 
features; an’ if she was a trifle shorter in the neck, 
an’ hadn’t that long-tailed jacket on her, she’d be as 
fine a female as the one on the awlmanick at home 
hangin’ be the dresser. An’ that one in the corner, wi’ 
a hat on her as big as an umberell; now that lassie’s a 
tear-away. An’ there’s another — d’ye see her, James? 
Herself wi’ the gossoon in sailor’s britches — that one, 
sure, has a powerful fine pair of eyes in her. Wouldn’t 
that be your opinion, James?” 

Well,” said James, cocking his wise head, ^^if ye 
ask me, Mike, I’d say they’re too much like the kind 
you’d see in a sick cow — too big an’ watery. But there’s 
a woman,” and James pointed at a figure with his pipe 
stem, takes me fancy. That one’d be a powerful high- 
stepper, I’m thinkin’; an’ she carries herself well inside 
that grand dress of hers.” 

Anne Daly nudged Judy Brady with her elbow and 
whispered behind her hand : 

D’ye hear the bletherskites,” said she. 

Ay,” answered Mike, and held the sheet away from 
him, she’s a tip-topper sure enough — a tip-topper. 
But she’s fine in the bone, that one. Look at the hands 
on her, James. How I’d be thinkin’ she was more after 
the kind o’ your race-horse, fit for little but prancin’ 
about an’ caperin’. It’d be a poor show she’d make in 
a meadow, James; it’s not praties an’ salt she’d 
thrive on.” 

Aw, not at all,” said James, sitting back in his place; 
‘‘ not at all. Sure she’d be what you’d call a lady — 


THE HATMAKEES 


101 


they’re all that kind; the wives the quality, an’ their 
daughters, an’ all that. Sure an hour o’ that sun,” 
James looked over his shoulder towards Emo hill, ’d 
scorch the skin on her. It would so.” 

Ah, ’deed would it.” Mike turned the sheet, pulled 
his hat over his eyes, gathered up his knees, rested his 
elbows upon them and began spelling among the letter- 
press. ‘‘ ’Deed it would. I accuse it’s ladies they’d be. 
Yis.” 

Anne Daly turned to Judy Brady and Annie Trotter. 

It’s God’s mercy, girls,” said she, with a mocking 
laugh, that we can keep our skins whole on us. I 
wonder what the men these parts’d be doin’, supposin’ 
we were fine in the bone an’ couldn’t thrive on the 
praties an’ salt ? ” 

Sure the cratures’d just gasp an’ die,” returned 
Judy Brady. Sure they would.” 

James Daly winked solemnly across at Hal and my- 
self, as soberly we sat, with an eye on the Master, taking 
half minute turns at Jem’s elegant briar pipe. Annie 
Trotter took up her baby and turned from the company; 
James, her husl)and, lay down on the hay beside her 
and plaintively fell to lilting a stave from Oarryowen; 
whew-whew went the Master down into his beard; all 
softly Mike went mumbling and stumbling among the 
wonders of his bit o’ print. 

It isn’t ladies in fashion plates the likes of us’d be 
thanked for bein’,” Anne went on, and spoke imperson- 
ally as if to the stumps on the Crockan. It’s not good 
looks, an’ hats like umberells, an’ eyes like sick cows, 
we’d be wantin’. Aw no, dears! It’s an ould shawl 


102 


IKISH PASTOEALS 


round our shoulders, an’ a shillin’ straw bonnet, an’ a 
linsey dress at eightpence the yard, ’d be suitin’ us. It’s 
thank ye kindly, we must say when himself wi’ the purse 
gives us a pair o’ brown paper ’lastic-sides to go to mass 
in. It’s patch the tatters, an’ turn an’ twist, an’ darn 
an’ sew, we must be doin’ wi’ the ould duds. Aw yis,” 
said Anne, a trace of bitterness quick in her voice, 
troth an’ sowl it’s the grand fashion plates we step 
into, God help us ! ” 

Again J ames winked at Hal and myself, then turned 
slow eyes upon his wife. 

Divil as fine a lump of a woman iver wore a hook 
an’ eye as yourself, Anne,” said he. Divil a fashion 
plate iver printed ’d be good enough to ” 

Ah, keep your bleather for the ladies, James Daly,” 
cried Anne. 

I’m keepin’ it,” answered James, in his sly way. 
It’s to the finest lady in the country-side I’m talkin’ 
this mortial minute. I wish to glory, Anne, I could 
cover ye in silk an’ satin’, an’ give ye spring-sides with 
heels on them as high as a stool. Woman dear, wouldn’t 
I be the proud man to see ye wollopin’* off to mass in a 
green silk dress an’ frills on it, an’ a waist on ye as 
big round as the crown o’ me hat, an’ a big feather 
wagglin’ out o’ your head, an’ a collar on ye that high 
one’d think ’twas a bearin’ rein was keepin’ your head 
back. An’ there’d be poor me trudgin’ after ye in me 
white corduroys, an’ me ould brown frieze coat, 
an’ ” 

An’ you keepin’ the sky from failin’ wi’ a pitch 
fork,” said Anne; an’ meself leadin’ a mad pig be the 


THE HAYMAKEES 


103 


wings. Ah, hold your whisht, James Daly, an’ ax the 
dog to learn ye sense ! ” 

Och, I needn’t ax the dog, Mrs. Daly,” drawled 
James. Sure ivery time ye open your lips as much 
sense is wasted as’d be a God-send to a lunytic asylum.” 

It’s a pity then ye kept your wits, Mr. Daly — such 
as they are.” 

Ay, it is.” James laughed softly and struck a match 
on his pipe bowl. Sure it is. But, seein’ that I’m a 
marrit man, mebbe it’s somethin’ of a credit to me.” 

Ah, ye ould divil,” cried Anne. She laughed mer- 
rily, rolled a wad of hay and flung it at James. Ye 
ould blarneyin’ divil,” cried she; then turned and fell to 
flattery and foolishness at the feet of the infant Trotter. 

Mike Brady ceased muttering, and with his precious 
bit o’ print in his hand, came shuffling across the stubble. 

What’d that be all about, Mr. John?” asked he, 
leaning towards me and with his Anger indicating the 
mystic column which in journals of fashion is devoted to 
correspondents and their enquiries. As well as I could, 
I made answer. Mike shuffled back to his place. 

Aw yis,” said he, gathering up his knees again. 

I was thinkin’ ’twas somethin’ like that. Well, now,” 
he went on, with the sheet open before him, it’s a 
mighty curious thing, that — mighty curious. I accuse 
it’s the flrst time I’ve iver seen the likes of it. Sup- 
posin’, now, Mr. John, I made free to send a letter to the 
lassie that does the answerin’, would she answer me ? ” 

Hardly, Mike. But she might answer Judy.” 

Ay,” said Mike; just so. I was imaginin’ ’twas 
only women she had to do with. But, sure, some o’ 


104 


IKISH PASTOEALS 


them must be mighty strange kind o’ mortals. They 
must so. Now there’s a lassie here — where is she? Ay, 
here she’ll be, some one that calls herself Stella — an’ 
it’s my opinion she’ll have powerful little to do in the 
world. I’m a bad hand at the readin’,” said Mike, look- 
ing across at me; an’ there’s words here that flummox 
me, but ” 

Read up, Mike,” shouted Hal and Jem and I in a 
breath. Fire it out, me son,” said James Daly. 

Mike turned his back to the sun and wet his lips. 

Well, I’ll do me best,” said he; then, a Anger slowly 
following his eyes across the sheet, word by word, often 
letter by letter, went on with the reply to Stella. 

The reply was framed on classic lines, and held little 
of novelty. Stella was quite right in asking editorial 
advice as to the care and dressing of those ringlets of 
hers. The hair was a woman’s glory. The poet Tenny- 
son had written .... (Behold Mike floundering 
through the wonders of poesy). The poet Ovid had 
beautifully observed .... (Again Mike tripped and 
tumbled; then, the quotations being happily ended, went 
hurrying on.) Let Stella use an oval brush, night and 
morning, for ten minutes at least; let her give each side 
flfty strokes of a soft-toothed comb; let her .... Mike 
stopped and looked up. 

D’ye know what? ” said he. I’m thinkin’ that if 
’twas flfty strokes of a heather switch that lassie got 
mebbe it’d beneflt her health.” 

It would so,” said Hal and Jem and I in a breath. 

Serve her right if it’s as bald as a bull’s horn she 
gets,” said Wee James. 


THE HAYMAKERS 


105 


There’s one o’ your ladies for ye,” sneered Anne 
Daly; but James, her husband, leant forward and 
gripped a boot in each hand. 

I’m thinkin’,” said he, it isn’t on her hands an’ 
knees that one crawls to bed o’ nights as tired as a post 
horse. Kaw.” 

Naw,” went the voices. Danged if it is.” 

It isn’t on straw that one sleeps, I’m thinkin’,” 
James continued, and looked at his wife as if to say: 
Now I’m on your side, Mrs. Daly. An’ it isn’t out 
o’ bed she jumps o’ mornin’s, wi’ the feathers stickin’ 
over her pate, an’ hurries to get the childer’s stirabout. 
Naw.” 

Naw,” went the voices again. Danged if it is.” 
Then out spoke Anne, the wife of James. 

D’ye know what,” said she, and looked at James 
as if to say: An’ now I’m on my own side again, Mr. 
Daly; d’ye know what me own private opinion is? 
I believe it’s the men themselves that ask these kind o’ 
questions. Sure ivery woman wi’ hands on her knows 
how to comb her hair. An’ sure the vanity o’ the poor 
men is past all knowin’. Now, there’s James beyont 
there must shave himself twice a week, no less; an’ ivery 
blessed night he must wash himself in warm water, if 
ye please — ay, if the porridge was burnin’ to a cinder; 
an’ if you’d see him squintin’ into a looking glass o’ 
Sundays, arrangin’ a curl here, an’ a curl there, an’ 
twistin’ at the whiskers on him, sure it’s die you’d do.” 

Good for you, Anne,” cried Hal and Jem and I. 

Good, me girl! ” 

James leant towards his wife. 


106 


lEISH PASTOKALS 


It’s powerful free o’ the tongue you’ll be, the day^ 
Mrs. Daly,” said he, softly and slyly; an’ ojus ready 
to give meself the taste of it. Now, would ye be ob- 
jectin’ to givin’ the company some trifles about yourself? 
Mebbe, you’d like to tell them about the time ye 
squeezed yourself that tight into a new dress you’d be 
havin’, that ye couldn’t ate your breakfast, an’ went 
pantin’ to chapel like a fish on grass, an’ had a face 
on ye as red as a boiled mangel? Come, now, Mrs. 
Daly.” 

That was the talk for a hay-field! Ho, hOy laughed 
the men. The women, excepting Anne, tittered and 
looked towards the river. Ah, quit wi’ ye, James 
Daly,” said they. Mike Brady lowered his bit o’ print, 
and looked fixedly at Anne. 

He had ye there, Anne,” said he. 

Anne sniffed. Aw, divil’s the lie in that,” said she; 
divil’s the one. But, faith, if I did squeeze meself 
into it, I didn’t burst it — an’ that’s more than James 
can say about his last pair o’ Sunday britches when he 
stooped to tie his boots.” 

That was the talk for a hay-field ! That was the talk 
that appealed to your free and easy haymakers, with 
their lungs full of good air, and their brains dancing 
with the fumes of good Congo; that was the kind of 
talk! Hal and Jem and myself lay back, shouting and 
kicking our heels; Wee James went te-hey te-he between 
his teeth, as if mimicking the splutter of a piston; 
Annie, J ames’ wife, with her face and baby turned from 
the company, shook with laughter; even little yellow 
Judy Brady contrived to force up a titter; on Anne’s 


THE HAYMAKERS 


107 


face was a broad light of triumph; James sat blinking 
at the sun, and towards him Mike Brady, the lean and 
dour, turned solemnly. 

You’re bet, James? ” said Mike, half asserting, half 
questioning. 

James puckered his lips and looked hard at the 
ground, as though searching for a retort in the stubble. 

You’re bet, James? ” said Mike again, in the voice 
of the scorner. 

Another minute James sat studying his boots; then 
turned over on an elbow and gave himself to the conso- 
lation of his pipe. 

I’m thinkin’,” said he, almost blushing beneath his 
tan; I’m thinkin’ they’re powerful smart fellows that 
be writin’ these papers. They ” 

Boo-o-o! With one voice we cried shame upon James. 
He a man! Beaten by his wife! He an Irishman! 
Boo! 

The Master snorted; shot upright and looked at his 
watch. 

What — what,” cried he. What — ^what! Come, 

l^ds, come; there’s work to be done.” 

II 

A WRITING CHAP 

QuiCKLYwe rose and spread across the meadow. Anne 
Daly and Judy Brady took their rakes and went turning 
the grass that lay heavy upon the river bank. Annie 
Trotter crooned over her baby; kissed it, laid it to rest 
in the shade of a haycock; with Jem began work again 


108 


lEISH PASTOEALS 


with the rope-twister. Wee James took a run, leaped 
right over Mike Brady as he stooped to tie a hoot, and 
skirling went plump into the middle of his half-built 
ruck. The Master yoked a horse to the slipe, put Johnny 
Brady at its head, gripped the handles, and with much 
bustle and wo-hoing fell to gathering in the long yellow 
rows. Away, among the newly-mown swaths, over 
whose fatness the speckled frogs went leaping and 
sprawling, and outside a high plot of grass in which the 
corn-crakes sat cowering among the daisies, Hal was 
yoking horses to the mowing machine, and, with an oath 
for every death, killing the flies that lay gorging their 
blood. A flne confusion of sounds — of shouting and 
laughter, of singing and swearing, of jingling and whirr- 
ing and clanking — fllled the meadow; all the air that 
stirred would not flap a shirt sleeve; like the breath 
of a furnace, the heat came pouring from the great 
brazen sun, swept over Emo hill and smote us there in 
the valley by the cool winding river. \ 

It happened that I who write, had persuaded the 
Master, that same day, to let me try my skill (or what 
was left of it from the old days) in the building of a 
haycock. The chances were that I should fail, that half 
way up or farther, my feet would slip, or my head reel, 
and down come haycock, self and all. Still I was ready 
to take the chances ; Hal and the rest were anxious to see 
me fail; there was no great pressure of work; immedi- 
ately after tea, therefore, the Master nodded towards a 
pile of hay (called a hutt, in those parts) and said I 
might try my luck. 

So, not without some feeling of apprehension, or call 


THE HAYMAKERS 


109 


it responsibility, I stepped upon the unsteady butt and 
made ready to receive, and spr.ead, and trample down, 
the forkfuls which James Daly should pitch to me. 
Mercy, but the foundation was uncertain; ah, but the 
sun was hot ! 

James spat on his hands, seized a fork and drove 
it into the ring of hay that lay piled all round us. 
‘‘ Now keep your houghs stiff,’’ said he, over his shoul- 
der; stick one foot in the middle there, keep it steady 
an’ spin round on it. * Don’t be floostered; keep your 
head; an’ dang me, if ye don’t stand on the top yit.” 

All right, James,” said I, and took the first forkful; 

all right, but don’t crowd me, man — don’t crowd me.” 

Ah, very well. James was quite agreeable. But no 
need was there to begin fretting; no need in life, till 
the bulge of the ruck was passed. Let me shake it out, 
and put my foot down firm, and pay no heed to Master 
Jem. That was the ticket; prime I was getting on, 
prime. 

Now,” James went on, bending for a forkful, I’m 
thinkin’ it’s yourself, Mr. John, in the course o’ your 
travels, has met more’n one o’ these chaps that writes 
the papers? ” 

You mean, editors? ” said I, bending cautiously for 
an armful. 

I dunno what ye call them,” answered James; but 
I mean the lads that write the kind o’ stuff Mike was 
readin’ a while ago — them an’ the rest o’ them. Did 
iver ye meet e’er a one o’ them boyos? ” 

Not one, James.” 

^^Now!” James paused a moment and knowingly 


110 


IKISH PASTOKALS 


winked. Now, ye don’t say that? An’ you a travelled 
man that’s seen London an’ the big world! Well, well 
James spat on his hands; that’s mighty curious. Sure, 
from all the writin’ there is in one o’ these papers, an’ 
all the papers one sees in the shop windows in Bunn, 
Pd be thinkin’ the lads were as thick on the streets as 
blackberries. To think o’ that now; an’ to think meself 
has seen one thing more in the world than you.” 

Oh. So you’ve seen one of the lads, James?” 

Aw ’deed have I; a real live writin’ man; ay, an’ 

a diver fellow — a diver fellow Aw sure, aw 

sure.” James pushed back his hat and broke into a 
guffaw. HaWy haw! Will I iver forget that day, will 
I iver forget it? Haw, haw! ” 

It’s not fair, J ames,” said I, turning on my pivot- 
leg, and it’s not manners, to keep the laugh to your- 
self.” 

Haw, haw,^^ laughed J ames again. Aw, troth, 
Mr.' John, you’ll have to forgive the laughin’, for it’s 
tickled I was. Whisht, an’ I’ll tell ye about it: from 

first to last I’ll tell ye Now, keep them legs 

o’ yours straight up there; an’ let the hay out — let it 
out, or, be jamenty, you’ll bring the ruck to a head as 
fast as if ye were made of linseed. Let it out; och, let 
it out, or we’ll be the laughin’ stock o’ the meadow. 
An’ shake a grain here, an’ slap a lock down there, 
an’ . . . .” 

Volubly and forcibly James gave his orders; meekly 
and cautiously I did his bidding; far out in the meadow, 
the Master stood eyeing my handiwork; the women 
leant on their rakes and stared an^ criticised; Hal 


THE HAYMAKEKS 


111 


stopped the horses and flung me a cheer; Wee James, 

my rival in trade, shouted encouragement I 

took James Daly^s advice, gave neither heed nor an- 
swer, and set myself to follow his story. 

The lad I’m to tell ye about,” said James, in that 
dry, easy-going way of his, was called Joseph at home, 
an’ Joe be himself, an’ Jop be ivery one else. Jop 
Hanly was his name in full; an’ he was the son o’ 
Hanly the town clerk of Clogheen beyont, him that 
was marrit three times, an’ played the divil wi’ three 
wives, an’ was kilt at last be the kick of a horse. Well, 
Jop was a little scrunt of a chap, ’bout as big in his 
boots as Wee James over there, an’ not half his weight, 
an’ held his head as high as a jayraffe. He was a 
diver boy was Jop; ay. He had a head on him as big 
as a two gallon pot ; an’ ’twas said that for three glasses 
o’ whisky he’d talk bleather to ye in three kinds o’ speech 
— his own an^ two others; an’ I mind bearin’ him meself, 
the time I used to work over Clogheen way, makin’ a 
speech as long as himself that had more onknowable 
words in it than’d sink a cot. The best o’ schoolin’ 
Jop had, the very best, for he was the ouldest son an’ 
the father had pride in him; an’ the man that learnt 
him knew as much as a priest. But for all his cliver- 
ness, you’d not much care for him. Haw. He was 
gabby, an’ ontrustable; an’ he’d drive a knife in ye 
fast as wink; an’ if so be the Lord had sent him into 
the world wi’ a tail on him surely it’d ha’ been a pay- 
cock’s. V ain ? It’s not the word. He was as big in his 
own eyes an’ as conceited as flve an’ twenty tailors in 
their Sunday clothes. 


112 


lEISH PASTOEALS 


Well, sir, Jop forby all else he had in that big head 
his, was a great man at the writin’. Divil a word ye 
could set down but he’d string a rhyme to it; it came 
as easy to him to make a song, chune an’ all, as to drink 
buttermilk. An’, sure, to me own knowledge he had 
half the females in the country at his heels wi’ the 
butiful letters he’d be writin’ to them. Och, man, to 
see the handwrite of him; an’ to see the pen flyin’ in 
his fist! ’Twas wonderful. Where in the King’s name 
he got the big words from, or how in blazes he made 
them come one after another, like hailstones rattlin’ on 
the road, I can’t fathom. It was just like India meal 
pourin’ from a sack, as thick an’ as constant; an’ if one 
here wanted a letter sent to the papers, or if another 
there had somethin’ to send to a lawyer, or if a woman’d 
be after sayin’ a word to the childer in the States, ’twas 
always to Jop they’d go. An’ sure Jop was niver on- 
willin’. Ah no. All ye had to do was to plant a glass 
o’ whisky at his elbow, put a pen in his fist, tell him 
your wishes, an’ off he’d go like a house on fire with his 
curlycues an’ bendebuses.” 

That’s a good word, James,” said I, from my place 
on the haycock. 

It is that,” answered James, standing back to criti- 
cise; an’ that’s more’n I can say for your buildin’. 
Man alive, don’t be afeerd; it isn’t on sawdust you’ll 
be standin’. Move your feet, I tell ye, an’ spread the 
hay out. Wollop a lock here.” James smote the ruck 
here. Throw a lock there.” James smote the ruck 

there. Spread an armful along here 

^^Well, sir,” James went on, after a while, there 


THE HAYMAKEKS 


113 


comes an end to all things; an’, in the course o’ time, 
Jop gets tired o’ firin’ about Clogheen an’ carryin’ his 
big head here an’ there. He wanted to see the world, 
says he. Clogheen was only a hole of a place, says he; 
what chance was there, says he, for a man with brains 
in a bit of a town like that? Naw, dop’d see the world; 
so one fine mornin’ off me gentleman sets wi’ his traps, 
buys a ticket from the station master, shakes hands wi’ 
one an’ other, an’ shouts Good-bye from the windy o’ the 
twelve o’clock train. An’ next thing we all hears is 
that Jop was scribblin’ for some newspaper or other, 
takin’ down cases in the law courts an’ doin’ the divil 
an’ all in the streets o’ Dublin. 

So far so good; but, lo an’ behold ye, one day, here’s 
the father wagglin’ his coat-tails through the street, an’ 
him burstin’ his waistcoat wi’ pride, an’ a kind of a book 
— one of these affairs wi’ pictures in them that the 
youngsters sell at the stations — in his fist, an’ him goin’ 
from shop to shop, showin’ to one an’ another a bit of 
a story that Jop was after writin’. 

^ Look at that,’ he’d say, an’ bang the book on the 
counter; ^ look at what my son Joseph Patrick’s after 
writin’. There’s somethin’ to be proud of,’ he’d say, an’ 
march out, an’ take the first he’d meet be the collar. 
^ Look at that,’ he’d say; ^ look at what my son Joseph 
Patrick’d be after writin’. Come away an’ have a drink,’ 
he’d say, ^ till I read it to ye. Come away.’ An’ away 
he’d go; an’ he’d read an’ read, an’ he’d drink an’ drink; 
an’ afore two hours, ’twas home he was carried speech- 
less, shoutin’ like blazes, an’ wavin’ the book about his 
head. 


114 


lElSH PASTOEALS 


’Twasn’t long afore all Clogheen got a squint at 
Jop’s bit o’ writin’; an’, faith, ’twasn’t long either afore 
people were squintin’ over their noses about it. Sure, 
’twas a scandalous piece of impidence. I mind me bear- 
in’ it read one night on the canal bridge as well as if 
’twas only yisterday. Och, ’twas fair impidence. It 
was a kind of a story about courtin’ an’ kissin’, an’ a 
failin’ out between a pair o’ fools in the middle, an’ a 
big fight at the end, an’ a man nearly kilt, an’ all the 
rest. But here’s where the impidence comes in. Ivery 
danged thing happened in a place that was only Clog- 
heen under another name; an’ ivery danged mortial in 
it was someone, under another name, that we all knew 
as well as we knew the polls. Here was Father Mat 
just as big as life; here was Miss Kelly of the post 
office without a wart missin’ from her face; here 
was ould Burke of the hotel wi’ a nose on him like 

a red-hot blackthorn; here was Sure ivery one 

was there as plain, ay an’ twice as plain, as the clock 
on the town hall. An’ iveryone had their worst fut 
foremost; ay. ’Twasn’t all the nice things Jop said 
o’ them. Aw, no. ’Twas just the things we all used 
to laugh at. 

Well, that was bad enough; but sure all of us that 
wasn’t made game of’d ha’ laughed at t’others an’ said 
nothin’, if so be dop’d ha’ left Clogheen alone. ’Twas 
that angered us, an’ made us promise to keep a stone 
up our sleeves for Mr. J op. Divil the like of it ye iver 
heard. You’d think ’twas Clogheen had kicked him out 
into the world, instead o’ it bein’ his own town, an’ the 
place he was born in, an’ it full of his friends. Clogheen 


THE HAYMAKEKS 


115 


was a dirty little town built on the side of a hill, says 
Mr. Jop. Clogheen hadn’t a stone in the sidewalks of 
it that wasn’t cracked, says Mr. Jop, or a house that 
wasn’t ready to fall, or a shop fit to sell rags. You’d 
find whisky runnin’ down the gutters fair days, says 
Mr. Jop, an’ ivery man-child in it as drunk as a fiddler, 
an’ ivery second man whackin’ his neighbour wi’ a 
blackthorn. All day long, says Jop, you’ll find the 
citizens (that was the word) keepin’ the walls from 
failin’ by standin’ against them, an’ their wives clackin’ 
in their tatters, and their childer pullin’ the tails out 
o’ the pigs in the gutters; an’ the whiff o’ turf smoke’d 
blind ye, an’ you’d hear nothin’ but the clink o’ spoons 
in the tumblers all day long. That was how Jop talked, 
that was what he said o’ the town he was born in — the 
little, pot-headed liar! Why, dang me,” cried James, 
driving his fork viciously into a pile of hay, ’twas a 
wonder some o’ us didn’t take the train to Dublin an’ 
kick his dirty carcass into the Liffey.” 

James paused to light his pipe; then stood back from 
the haycock, tilted his head and fell to indulging me 
with some critical and satirical remarks. Ah, I was 
gettin’ on beautiful, so I was; divil take James, but it 
must be a turf stack I was after building; sorrow take 
his bones, but I had manufactured somethin’ for all the 
world like a beehive running to seed. Couldn’t I do as 
I was told? Dang it, was I afraid? Hoi, Mike,” 
shouted he, at last. Come here, ye boy ye, an’ help me 
to get this article into some kind o’ shape. Come on, 
afore it grows into a church steeple.” 

Very meekly I heard; cautiously I sat me down. Be- 


116 


IRISH PASTORALS 


low me the haycock swayed and wobbled in response 
to the vigorous banging and plucking of Mike and 
James. My face was tingling and smarting; the sun 
smote me mercilessly; now and again Hal and Jem 
sent me a satiric cheer: in a while, out steps James 
again, seizes his fork and shouts for me to look alive up 
there. 

Things quieted down in Clogheen,” said James, 
after a week or so ; an’ in the course o’ time home 
comes Jop to see the ould father. We were waitin’ 
for that; och, we were. He was little changed to all 
appearance; his clothes maybe were a trifle smarter, 
an’ himself a bit brightened up, but he looked much 
the same. Here he goes an’ there he goes. ^ How are 
ye, me son?’ he says to this; an’, ^ Bully for you, me 
boy,’ he shouts to that. It was a drink here wi’ him, 
an’ two there; an’ withal one could see wi’ half an 
eye that he was dyin’ for us to tell him we’d read his 
story, an’ were powerful proud of it an’ him. But not 
we; och, not we! We just kept our tongues in our 
cheeks, listened to his talk an’ his romancin’ about the 
girls o’ Dublin; just listened to him, an’ said little, an’ 
got ready for him. 

At last, one day, up marches Billy Brody (him that 
was manager o’ the butter yard) to me bould Jop, axes 
him to have a drink, an’ over the tumblers gives out 
that some o’ the boys were anxious to have a spree wi’ 
J op — just to meet him on the quiet, an’ crack a couple 
o’ bottles, an’ make a night of it, an’ show Jop how 
proud they all were of him. They’d kept things quiet 
up to this, says Billy, because — well, because they 


THE HAYMAKEKS 


IIY 


wanted to give Jop a surprise, an’ ’twas only to give him 
a chance to get ready a bit of a speech that Billy was 
tellin’ him now. Would Jop come? asks Billy in a floos- 
tered kind o’ way; would Jop honour the company by 
showin’ himself among them? Because if he would, 
they’d be waitin’ for him at ten o’clock that night in 
the barn over Mrs. Grogan’s stables — ’twas a poor place 
to bring him to, an’ the hour was late; but sure they 
were anxious to keep to themselves an’ from the noses 
o’ the polis. Would Jop come? says Billy again. An’ 
at the word Jop whacks the counter, an’ lets fly a big 
oath, an’ says be this an’ be that but Billy was a brick, 
an’ the boys were darlints, an’ he’d come like a shot, an’ 
dang their eyes but they’d have a night of it. 

Well, sir, ten o’clock comes an’ there we are, about 
twenty or thirty of us, in Grogan’s barn waitin’ for Jop. 
’Twas a biggish place at the back o’ the town, close to 
the flelds, wi’ straw and hay along the walls, an’ an 
odd sack of oats here an’ there; an’ sittin’ about on sacks 
an’ stools an’ buckets were the lot of us, wi’ Billy Brody 
in a big armchair out in the middle of the floor. An’ 
there was no whisky, an’ no sign of any; an’ half the 
pipes among us weren’t goin’; an’ we said little; an’ 
’twas only to snuff the candles that stood here an’ there 
in bottles that one of us’d stir a limb. 

After a while we hears the tramp, tramp o’ Jop up 
the barn ladder; then his big head shows above the 
floor, then his shoulders .... an’ afore you’d wink, 
one o’ the boys had the trap door closed behind him 
an’ was sittin’ on it. 

^ Ho, ho, me sons,’ says Jop, turnin’ to us an’ rubbin’ 


118 


lEISH PASTOEALS 


his hands; ^ ho, ho, me sons, here we are again. Bully 

boys, bully boys ’ An’ next thing, two of the lads 

had J op be the arms an’ were twistin’ them behind his 
back. That took him be surprise, an’ for a second or 
so he stands dumfoundered; then tries to twist round, 
an’ shouts: 

^ What — what’s this? Damme, what’s this? Let 
me go, ye fools,’ roars Jop. But the boys held him 
as if he was a child; an’ Billy Brody shouts from the 
chair: 

‘ Silence, Joseph Hanly.’ 

‘ Silence yourself, Billy Brody,’ answers Jop, strug- 
glin’ an’ fightin’. ^ Let me go,’ he roars, an’ froths at 
the mouth ; ‘ aw, dang ye, let me go ! ’ But he might 
just as well ha’ fought against a steam engine; an’ five 
minutes after he was standin’, pantin’ like a mad dog 
an’ as white as chalk, before Billy Brody an’ the big arm- 
chair. 

There was a scuffle o’ feet on the barn floor as we 
all gathered round, an’, ^ Silence,’ roars Billy; then but- 
tons his coat, clears his throat, an’ lookin’ at Jop as if 
he meant to bore holes in him wi’ his eyes, he begins 
a speech. You’d be up in the clouds — an’ the Lord 
knows,” said James, throwing a note of deadliest sar- 
casm into his voice, you’d hardly go there faster in a 
balloon nor you’re goin’. Man alive, spread the hay 
round ye, an’ don’t be puttin’ it under your feet like a 
hen goin’ to lay an egg. Spread it . . . .” 

For the love of heaven, J ames,” cried I, shut your 
trapple and go on with your story.” 

I’ll not stand in this meadow,” answered he. 


THE HAYMAKEKS 


119 


an’ see ye disgracin’ your breed wi’out speakin’ me 
mind.” 

You’ve spoken it, James,” said I in a voice of 
honey. Now, like a good man, quit bullying me, and 
finish that grand story of yours.” 

He looked dubiously at me; then turned away and 
began gathering some loose hay into a heap. 

I dunno whether you’re foolin’ me or not,” he said; 
I misdoubt you’re blarneyin’ ; but no matter. I’ll finish 

what I had to say Where was I? Aw, yis. I 

was sayin’, less than two hours ago, that you’d be up in 
the clouds — an’ I say it again, mind ye, I say it again — 
you’d be up in the clouds if I started tellin’ ye all Billy 
Brody gave out in that speech of his. ’Twas as good a 
piece o’ work as iver came to me ears, an’ it was as 
good a piece o’ banter as iver Jop heard — that I’ll swear 
to. Not a word did Billy say about what was cornin’. 
Och, not one. Not a word did he say about Jop’s story, 
or the way people took it in Clogheen. Och, not one. 
Not a threat did Billy make, not an oath did he put from 
him, not an angry word crossed his lips; what he said, 
dang me eyes, if I remimber one syllable — an’ yit, some- 
how, ye had the feelin’ that you’d rather be trampin’ 
the treadmill nor bearin’ it in Jop’s shoes. Och, Billy 
had great gifts. It’s wonderful to think o’ the way he 
said nothin’ that night an’ cut Jop to the quick wi’ it. 
Ay, Billy had powerful gifts.” 

He certainly had,” said I, and wobbled on the neck 
of the haycock. 

At last,” James went on, quite unscathed of my 
irony, out from his pocket Billy takes one o’ the books 


120 


IRISH PASTORALS 


Jop had his name in, wets his finger, turns over for . a 
while, then holds the book in his two hands before Jop’s 
face, an^ says Billy: 

^ J oseph Hanly,’ says he, ^ do ye deny, or don’t ye, 
that your hand wrote what ye see before ye? ’ 

^ Why o’ course I wrote it,’ answers Jop, smart an’ 
quick like that ; ^ dang your eyes, can’t ye see me name 
to it? ’ 

^^^Very well,’ says Billy, turnin’ round the book, 
^ very well.’ Then he takes a candle, crosses his legs, 
clears his throat, holds the book up to his face, an’ 
says he: 

^ J oseph Hanly, did ye or did ye not write these 
words? ’ An’ in his big bull’s voice Billy reads v/hat 
J op had said about Clogheen bein’ a dirty little town that 
was built on a hill, an’ hadn’t a sound stone in the side- 
walks, an’ all that. ‘ Did ye write those words, Joseph 
Hanly,’ says Billy, lookin’ at him; ^ or did ye not? ’ 

^ Why, great King,’ shouts Jop, ^ can’t ye see I did.’ 

^ Off wi’ his coat,’ says Billy to the two boys that 
were grippin’ his arms; an’ at the word off they peel 
the coat from his back an’ fiings it on the fioor. 

Billy crosses his legs again, an’ goes on readin’ what 
Jop wrote about the whisky runnin’ down Clogheen 
street, an’ the drunken men whackin’ other, an’ the 
women screechin’ at their coat-tails. ^ Did ye write 
them words, Joseph Hanly,’ says Billy, at the end; ^ or 
did ye not? ’ 

^Ax me fut, Billy Knock-knee ’ (that bein’ Billy’s 
nickname, you’ll know), answers Jop; an’ at the word 
out roars Billy: 


THE HAYMAKEKS 


121 


^ Off wi’ his waistcoat’ ; an’ off comes the waistcoat 
an’ is pitched on the floor. 

Billy crosses his legs again, clears his throat, an’ 
falls to readin’ what Jop wrote in the story about the 
Clogheen men keepin’ the walls from failin’, an’ their 
wives clackin’ in their tatters, an’ the childer pullin’ the 
tails off the pigs, an’ all that. ^ Are them your words, 
Joseph Hanly,’ says Billy again; ^ are them your 
words? ’ 

^ Ax both me feet, Billy the Goat ’ (that bein’ an- 
other o’ Billy’s nicknames), shouts Jop; then makes a 
lep to get loose. ^ Aw, be the piper,’ says he, ^ but I’ll 
pay ye for this.’ 

^ Off wi’ his boots,’ roars Billy; an’ down Jop goes 
on his back an’ off comes the boots,” 

James paused and looked up at me. Keep studdy, 
Mr. John,” he said softly and almost pleadingly. Just 

put a wee grain tinderly under your feet Keep 

your houghs stiff, now You’ll be off in a minute, 

now Don’t fall, aw, don’t fall.” 

For heaven’s sake, James,” said I; never mind me, 
but go on with your story.” 

I will — I will,” said James. Keep studdy now for 

a minute — I’ll soon be done Where was I? 

Yis; off comes Jop’s boots. Well, sir, Billy reads an- 
other bit from the book an’ off comes Jop’s socks; an’ 
then he reads another piece an’ off comes his collar an’ 
. . . . Kow don’t be failin’, Mr. John — och, don’t be 
failin’.” 

I’ll jump on your hat, James Daly,” shouted I from 
the ruck-head, if you don’t finish.” 


122 


IRISH PASTORALS 


I will — I will Then up gets Billy from his 

chair, takes a sheet from one o’ the boys an’ wraps it 
round Jop, lights a penny dip an’ sticks it in one hand, 
puts the book he’d been readin’ from in th’ other, shouts, 

^ Right about turn — quick march.” .... An’ away to 
the trap door goes Jop, with a boy at each elbow an’ 
him whimperin’ like a babby. An’ Billy first, an’ the 
rest of us after him, down we go at Jop’s heels, an’ out 
through a back door into a lane that leads through the 
fields down to the canal. 

’Twas a fine warm night, I mind me, ’bout this sea- 
son o’ the year; an’ there was no moon, an’ no stars, 
an’ no sign of a livin’ soul. Just on our toes we went 
steppin’ along as quiet as ghosts in a graveyard, wi’ J op 
an’ the candle headin’ the pro-cession an’ ourselves fol- 
lowin’ Billy Brody along the lane. An’ sometimes a 
dog’d bark, an’ once a haythen of an ass brayed at us, 
an’ now an’ then you’d hear Jop groanin’ when his toes 
met a stone; but hardly a word passed between us, an’ 
’twasn’t till we were well out into the fields that Jop 
gets leave from Billy an’ the boys to open his lips wi’ 
a word. 

‘ Ah, what are ye goin’ to do wi’ me? ’ shouts he, 
twistin’ an’ strugglin’ inside the sheet. ^ In God’s name, 
what are ye goin’ to do wi’ me? .... Aw, Billy, Billy, 
let me go — let me go! Ah, I’ll die dead! .... Ah, 
me poor feet ! . . . . Ah, I’m cowld, I’m cowld ! . . . . 
Ah, what are ye goin’ to do? ’ 

‘‘ ‘ Wash some o’ the Dublin impidence out o’ ye be- 
low in the canal,’ answers Billy. ^ Silence in the ranks. 
.... Quick march there in front wi’ the prisoner.’ 


THE HAYMAKEES 


123 


Like that we went through the fields, an’ past the 
hedges an’ ditches, an’ across the meadows; an’ just as 
we had sight o’ the canal, all at once the shout was riz 
that the polls were cornin’ .... an’, at the word, off 
we all slopes hilter-skilter through the fields, an’ leaves 
Jop shiverin’ there in the sheet, an’ roarin’ for mercy, 

an’ grippin’ his book an’ candle ” 

I was standing on the Very top of the haycock. Out 
in the meadow, Jem and Annie Trotter and little Johnny 
Brady and the Master, stood looking towards me and 
laughing. Not far away, Mike Brady and Wee James 
stood prophesying my sudden downfall. From afar 
came Hal’s shout and skirl, and the hollow sound of his 
ironic applause. Just below stood James Daly, a hay- 
rope in his hand and in his eye a piteous light of dread. 
Now steady, me son,” pleaded James; steady for 
just a minute.” 

Finish your story.” 

Now just another minute — just one.” James got 
ready a rope and prepared to fling it. Steady now — 
steady . . . .” 

Finish your story,” I shouted. ‘‘ Finish your dang 
story or Fll toss the ruck.” 

Sure it’s finished. Sure ” 

Finish, I tell you What happened to Jop? ” 

Sure the polls put him inside an overcoat an’ took 
him to the barrack — sure they were expectin’ us — sure 
Billy had it all arranged.” James flung me the rope. 

Now take that, Mr. John ” 

Boldly I stood erect on the haycock; sternly I looked 
down upon James. 


124 


lEISH PASTOEALS 


Finish your story Never mind me. . . . 

Dang your caution What happened at the bar- 

racks ? 

'' Ah, the divil a much Sure Billy had it all 

arranged, I tell ye. An' after a while a few of us took 
Jop's clothes an' a bottle o' whisky round to the barr 
rack kitchen, gives Jop a couple o' glasses, brings out 
a pack o' cards; an' in half an hour all was arranged as 
peaceable as before a magistrate, an' Jop was bangin' 

the cards on a form before the fire Now aisvj 

Mr. John." James fiung me the second rope, fastened 
his end; then steadied the ruck with a rake. Now 
aisy, Mr. John; aisy, or you'll toss it. Slither light, Mr. 
J ohn ; slither light Good — good, me son ! " 


III 

THE WEE TAY TABLE 

I SLID down the side of the haycock, came thud 
upon the ground; then turned to view my handi- 
work. It was pitiable. This side bulged out like 
the belly of a slack jib, that side was fiat as a wall; here 
was a great hollow spot, there an overhanging bump; 
already had the neck gone awry, and the top stood bob- 
bing like the knob on a nightcap. It was woeful. 

The Master came up, snorted in his sarcastic way, 
and walked off. Wee James came spying, sent a titter 
between his teeth and slouched away. Good man 
J ohn," came from Hal across the meadow, it's the very 


THE HAYMAKERS 


125 


image of yourself, my son, only the hump on it’s not 
big enough.” Lie down under it,” shouted Jem, 

an’ when it falls it’ll rid the world of ye.” Och, 
niver heed their pranks,” said James Daly. Sure it’s 
not — sure it might ha’ been worse.” 

Without a word I turned away, picked up a rake, and 
set out across the meadow. 

Somewhere near the hill-hedge, with their arms bare, 
skirts tucked up, and faces peering from the depths of big 
sunbonnets, Anne Daly and Judy Brady were gathering 
the hay into long narrow rows; one raking this side of 
a row, the other that, and both sweetening toi^ with 
laughter and talk. Sometimes Anne leaned on her rake 
and chattered for a while; now Judy said a word or two 
and ended with a titter; again both bobbed heads and 
broke into merriment. I came nearer to them, got ready 
my rake, and began on a fresh row. 

The talk was of a woman, of her and her absurdities. 
Anne was of opinion that it was she — Hannah, she called 
her — and the likes of her who spent their time in writ- 
ing foolishness to these fashion papers. The lazy trol- 
lop,” said Anne; and, Ay, indeed,” assented Judy. 
Wasn’t it just like a thing she’d do, asked Anne — she 
and her airs, and fooleries, and make-believes? Aw, 
but did Judy mind the last time they saw her in Bunn 
fair, all decked out like a draper’s window with flowers 
and ribbons, and a wee bonnet cocked on her skull, and 
high-heeled boots, and the sorrow knows what? Aw, did 
Judy mind that? asked Anne, and laughed over her 
shoulder. Aw, faith, but Judy did mind it. The 
laughin’-stock o’ the town she was. And did Judy mind 


126 


IKISH PASTOKALS 


the tay-party she gave one time, and the wee table-cloth? 
Aw, heavenly hour, did Judy mind that affair? 

A table-cloth wi’ a fringe to it, an’ it not the size 
of an apron! ” cried Anne. 

A calf-skin spread on the floor, an’ John’s ould hat 
stuffed wi’ flowers! ” cried Judy. 

^ Wid ye like three lumps or four, Mrs. Flaherty? ’ ” 
cried Anne. Aw, dear heart, alive ! ” 

Then in comes big John,” cried Judy, in he comes 
— an’ — an’ — aw. Lord, Lord! ” 

And Judy bowed her head and laughed; and Anne 
bowed hers and laughed; and I, standing near them, and 
taken with the infection, must needs also lift my voice in 
a great guffaw. 

Anne turned and looked at me. 

Ah, it’s you, Mr. John,” said she. Sure I 
thought ” — and she glanced towards the river — that 
we left ye buildin’ some kind of a ruck? ” 

Overlooking the sarcasm, I shouldered my rake and 
walked up between the rows. 

Pve come to help you to laugh, Anne,” said I. 

What friend is this of yours and Judy’s that you’re 
stripping of her character? ” 

Aw, divil a friend is it,” said Anne, and went on 
raking; ‘‘ an’ divil a one ye iver heard of.” 

How do you know that? Come, out with it.” 

Ah, what’s the use? Sure it’s only foolishness.” 
^^Well, tell me, then, about the calf-skin and the 
wee table-cloth.” 

Aw, thaij'* said Anne. An’ did ye hear us bleath- 
erin’ about that? Aw, now! ” She laughed a little, 


THE HAYMAKEKS 


127 


protested a little; after a while, started on a fresh row, 
and with oneself facing her and Judy treading on her 
heels, went on with the story. 

The lassie,’’ said Anne, we were talkin’ about is 
a marrit woman — one Hannah Breen be name — an’ she 
lives in a big house on the side of a hill over there 
towards the mountain. The husband’s a farmer — an 
easy-goin’, bull-voiced, good-hearted lump of a man, wi’ 
a good word for ould Satan himself, an’ a laugh always 
ready for iverything. But the wife, Hannah, isn’t that 
kind. Aw, ’deed she isn’t. ’Tisn’t much good-speakin’ 
or laughin’ Hannah’ll be doin’ ; ’tisn’t herself ’d get many 
cars to follow her funeral in these parts. Aw, no. 
’Tisn’t milkin’ the cows, an’ makin’ the butter, an’ wash- 
in’ John’s shirts, an’ darnin’ his socks, an’ mendin’ her 
own tatters, an’ huntin’ the chickens from the porridge- 
pot, Hannah was made for. Aw, no. It’s a lady Han- 
nah must be, a real live lady. It’s step out o’ bed at 
eight o’clock in the mornin’, Hannah must do, an’ slither 
down to her tay an’ have it all in grandeur in the par- 
lour; it’s sittin’ half the day she must be, readin’ about 
the doin’s o’ the quality, an’ the goin’s on o’ the world, 
an’ squintin’ at fashion-pictures, an’ fillin’ her mind 
wi’ the height o’ nonsense an’ foolery; it’s rise from the 
table in a tantrum she must do because John smacks 
his lips, an’ ates his cabbage wi’ his knife; it’s worry 
the poor man out o’ his wits she’d be after because he 
lies an’ snores on the kitchen-table, an’ smokes up to 
bed, an’ won’t shave more’n once a week, an’ says he’d 
rather be hanged at once nor be choked up in a white 
shirt an’ collar o’ Sundays. An’ for herself — aw, now, 


128 


lEISH PASTOEALS 


it’d take me from this till sunset to tell ye about all 
her fooleries. If you’d only see her, Mr. John, stalkin’ 
in through the chapel gates, wi’ her skirts tucked up 
high enough to show the frillin’ on her white petticoat, 
an’ low enough to hide the big tear in it; an’ black kid 
gloves on her fists; an’ a bonnet on her wi’out a string 
to it; an’ light shoes on her; an’ a big hole in the heel 
o’ her stockin’; and her nose in the air; an’ her sn iffin ’ 
at us all just as if we were the tenants at the butter- 
show an’ herself My Lady come to prance before us all 
an’ make herself agreeable for five minutes or so ... . 
Aw, Lord, Lord,” laughed Anne, “ if ye could only see 
her, Mr. John. Ho, ho, childer — ho, ho!” 

“ Te-he,” tittered Judy Brady. “ Te-he! ” 

“ Haw, haw,” went 1. “ Haw, haw! ” 

“ An’ to see her steppin’ down Bunn street,” Anne 
went on, as we turned at the hedge and set our faces 
once more towards the river, “ as if the town belonged 
to her — a ribbon flutterin’ here, an’ a buckle shinin’ 
there, an’ a feather danglin’ another place — steppin’ 
along wi’ her butter-basket on her arm, an’ big John 
draggin’ at her heels, an’ that look on her face you’d ex- 
pect to see on the face o’ the Queen o’ France walkin’ 
on a goold carpet, in goold slippers, to a goold throne! 
An’ to see the airs of her when someone’d spake; an’ 
to see the murderin’ look on her when someone’d hint 
at a drop o’ whisky for the good of her health; an’ to 
hear the beautiful talk of her to the butter-buyers — 
that soft an’ po-lite; an’ to see her sittin’ in the ould 
ramshackle of a cart goin’ home, as straight in the back 
an’ as stiff as a ramrod, an’ her face set like a plaster 


THE HAYMAKEKS 


129 


imagej an’ her niver lettin’ her eye fall on John sittin’ 
beside her an’ him as drunk an’ merry as a houseful o’ 
fiddlers! Aw, sure,” cried Anne, flinging up a hand, 
aw, sure, it’s past the power o’ mortial tongue to 
tell about her.” 

Yours, Anne, makes a good attempt at the telling, 
for all that,” said L 

Ach, I’m only bleatherin’,” said Anne. ‘‘ If ye only 
knew her — if ye only did.” 

Well, tell me about the wee table-cloth,” said I, 
before your tongue gets tired.” 

Ah, sure an’ I will,” replied she; sure an’ I’ll try 
me hand at it.” 

The sun was dropping fast behind Emo hill; from the 
river a gentle breeze came creeping and sported with 
the crackling hay; across the meadow came the rattle 
of the mowing machine, and the snorts of Hal’s horses, 
and the shouts of Hal himself. Back near the haycock 
I had so laboriously builded, Jem and Johnny Brady 
had discovered a bee’s nest, and Jem was valorously 
storming it with a rake, and Johnny crowing with de- 
light and clapping his hands; clear out against the east- 
ern sky the figure of wee James stood straight on top 
of a ruck, hands on hips, feet close together as those of 
a drill sergeant: there was a great hum, a babblement, 
a noise of work and summer in the air; wherever one 
looked the hills were golden, and the fields smiling within 
their hedges, and the houses shining out in their white- 
ness. 

You’ll be mindin’,” said Anne, when she had loos- 
ened her bonnet strings and got her rake into swing. 


130 


IRISH PASTORALS 


that what I’m goin’ to tell ye is hearsay, an’ was told to 
meself, one day last year, be Jane Flaherty as we were 
cornin’ along the road from Bunn market. Mebbe I’ll 
be tellin’ ye lies, mebbe I’ll not; if I do may the Lord 
forgive me an’ Jane; an’ if I don’t ye may thank Jane, 
for it’s her own words I’m goin’ to tell ye. 

One day, then, sometime last summer, Hannah — 
beggin’ her ladyship’s pardon,” said Anne, a sudden 
note of scorn rasping in her voice, but I meant Mrs. 
Breen — decks herself out, ties on her bonnet, pulls on 
her kid gloves, an’ steps out through the hall door. 
Down she goes, over the ruts an’ the stones, along the 
lane, turns down the main road; after a while comes 
to the house o’ Mrs. Flaherty — herself that told me — 
crosses the street, an’ knocks po-lite on the door. 

‘ Aw, is Mrs. Flaherty at home, this fine day? ’ 
axes Hannah when the door opens, an’ wee Nancy puts 
her tattered head between it an’ the post. ^ Is Mrs. 
Flaherty at home?’ says she. 

‘ She is so,’ answers Nancy; ^ but she’d be out at 
the well,’ says the wee crature. 

‘ I see,’ says Hannah, ^ I see. Then, if you please, 
when she comes back,’ says she, ^ would ye be kindly 
handin’ her that, wi’ Mrs. Breen’s compliments ’ — an’ 
out of her pocket Hannah pulls a letter, gives it to 
Nancy, says good evenin’ to the wee mortial, gathers 
up her skirt, an’ steps off in her grandeur through the 
hens and ducks back to the road. Well, on she goes 
another piece an’ comes to the house of Mary Dolan; 
an’ there too, faith, she does the genteel an’ leaves an- 
other letter^ an’ turns her feet for the house of Mrs. 


THE HAYMAKEKS 


131 


Hogan; an’ at Sally’s slie smiles, an’ bobs her head, 
an’ pulls another letter from her pocket, an’ leaves it at 
the door; then twists on her heel, turns back home an’ 
begins dustin’ the parlour, an’ arrangin’ her trumpery, 
an’ readin’ bleather from the fashion papers. 

Very well, childer. Home Jane comes from the 
well, an’ there’s Nancy wi’ the letter in her fist. ‘ What 
the divil’s this? ’ says Jane, an’ tears it open; an’ there, 
lo an’ behold ye, is a bit of a card — Jane swears ’twas 
a piece of a bandbox, but I’d be disbelievin’ her — an’ 
on it an invite to come an’ have tay with me bould 
Hannah, on the next Wednesday evenin’ at five o’clock 
p.m. — whativer in glory p.m. may be after meanin’; an’ 
when Mary Dolan opens hers, there’s the same invite; 
an’ when Sally Hogan opens hers, out drops the same 
bit of a card on the floor; an’ Sally laughs, an’ Mary 
laughs, an’ Jane laughs, an’ the three o’ them, what wi’ 
the quareness o’ the business, an’ the curiosity of them 
to see Hannah at her capers, puts their heads together, 
an’ laughs again, an’ settles it that sorrow take them 

but go they’ll go. An’ go they did. Aw, yis 

Aw, Lord, Lord,” laughed Anne, turning up her eyes. 

Lord, Lord! ” 

Aw, childer, dear,” giggled Judy, with a heaving 
of her narrow shoulders. Aw, go they did! ” 

Good girl, Anne,” said I, and slapped my leg; my 
roarin’ girl! Aw, an’ go they did, Judy — go they did.” 

^^Well, hearts alive,” Anne went on, Wednesday 
evenin’ comes at last; an’ sharp to five o’clock up me 
brave Jane Flaherty steps along the lane, crosses the 
yard, an’ mindin’ her manners, knocks twice on Han- 


132 


IKISH PASTOKALS 


nah’s back door — then turns, an’ wi’ the dog yelpin’ at 
her, an’ the gander hissin’ like a wet stick on a fire, 
waits like a beggarwoman on the step. But divil a 
one comes to the door; aw, not a one. An’ sorrow a 
soul budged inside; aw, not a soul. So round turns 
J ane, lifts her fist again, hits the door three thunderin’ 
bangs, an’ looks another while at the gander. Not a 
budge in the door, not a move inside; so Jane, not to 
be done out of her tay, lifts the latch — an’, sure as the 
sun was shinin’, but the bolt was shot inside. ^ Well, 
dang me,’ says Jane, an’ hits the door a kick, ^ but this 
is a fine way to treat company,’ says she, an’ rattles the 
latch, an’ shakes it. At last, in the divil of a temper, 
spits on the step, whips up her skirt, an’ cursin’ Hannah 
high up an’ low down, starts for home. 

She got as far as the bend in the lane, an’ there 
meets Mary Dolan. 

What’s up?’ axes Mary. ^What’s floostered ye, 
Jane Flaherty? Aren’t ye goin’ to have your tay, me 
dear? ’ says Mary. 

‘‘ ‘ Aw, may the first sup she swallows choke the 
breath in her,’ shouts Jane, an’ goes on to tell her 
story; an’ before she’d said ten words, up comes Sally 
Hogan. 

‘‘ ^ Am I too late? ’ says Sally, ^ or am I too early? ’ 
says she; ^ or what in glory ails the two o’ ye? ’ 

^ Ails? ’ shouts Jane. ‘ Ye may well say that, Sally 
Hogan. Ye may turn on your heel,’ says she, an’ begins 
her story again; an’ before she was half through it Sally 
laughs out, and takes Jane by the arm, an’ starts back 
to the house. 


THE HAYMAKEES 


133 


^ Come away/ says she; ^ come away an’ have your 
tay, Jane; sure, ye don’t know Hannah yet.’ 

So back the three goes — but not through the yard. 
Aw, no. ’Twas through the wee green gate, an’ down 
the walk, an’ slap up to the hall door^ally takes them; 
an’ sure enough the first dab on the knocker brings a 
fut on the flags inside, an’ there’s Kitty, the servant-girl, 
in her boots an’ her stockin’s, an’ her Sunday dress, an’ 
a white apron on her, standin’ before them. 

‘ Aw, an’ is that you, Kitty Malone,’ says Sally. 
‘ An’ how’s yourself, Kitty, me dear? An’ wid Mrs. 
Breen be inside? ’ says she. 

^ She is so, Mrs. Hogan,’ answers Kitty, an’ bobs 
a kind of curtsy. ^ Wid ye all be steppin’ in, please? ’ 

‘ Aw, the Lord’s sake,’ gasps Sally on the door 
step, at all this grandeur ; ‘ the Lord’s sake,’ says 
she, an’ steps into the hall; an’ in steps Mary Dolan, 
an’ in steps Jane Flaherty, an’ away the three o’ them 

goes at Kitty’s heels up to the parlour Aw, 

heavenly hour,” cried Anne, and turned up her eyes. 

“Bo, hor^ 

“ Te-he,^ giggled Judy, and hoisted her shoulders. 
Te^he! ” 

Haw, Tiaw,^^ laughed I. Aw, Judy, dear. Haw, 
haw ! ” 

Well, dears,” Anne went on, “ in the three walks, 
bonnets an’ all, an’ sits them down along the wall on 
three chairs, an’ watches Kitty close the door; then looks 
at other in a puzzled kind o’ way, an’ after that, without 
openin’ a lip, casts their eyes about the room. ’Twas 
the funniest kind of a place, Jane allowed, that iver she 


134 


IKISH PASTORALS 


dropped eyes on. There was a sheep-skin, lyin’ woolly 
side up, in front o’ the fireplace, an’ a calf-skin near the 
windy ” 

Ay, a calf-skin,” said J udy Brady. Te-he ! ” 

an’ a dog’s skin over be the table, an’ the floor 

was painted brown about three fut all round the walls. 
There was pieces o’ windy curtain over the backs o’ the 
chairs; there was a big fern growin’ in an ould drain- 
pipe in the corner; there was an ould straw hat o’ John’s 
stuffed full o’ flowers an’ it flangin’ on the wall, an’ here 
an’ there, all round it an’ beside it were picters cut from 
the papers an’ then tacked on the plaster. Ye could 
hardly see the mantelshelf, Jane allowed, for all the 
trumpery was piled on it, dinglum-danglums of glass an’ 
chaney, an’ shells from the say, an’ a sampler stuck in 
a frame, an’ in the middle of all a picter of Hannah 
herself got up in all her finery. An’ there was books, 
an’ papers, an’ fal-lals, an’ the sorrow knows what, lyin’ 
about; an’ standin’ against the wall, facin’ the windy, 
was a wee table, wi’ a cloth on it about the size of an 
apron, an’ it wi’ a fringe on it, no less, an’ it spread 
skew-wise an’ lookin’ for all the world like a white ace 
o’ diamonds; an’ on the cloth was a tray wi’ cups an’ 
saucers, an’ sugar an’ milk, an’ as much bread an’ but- 
ter, cut as thin as glass, as you’d give a sick child for its 

supper Aw, heavenly hour,” cried Anne, 

heavenly hour ! ” 

Aw, childer, dear,” cried Judy. Te-he! ” 

Aw, woman alive,” said I. Aw, Judy, dear. 
Haw, haw ! ” 

^^Well, childer, the three looks at all, an’ looks at 


THE HAYMAKEKS 


135 


each other, an’ shifts on their chairs, an’ looks at each 
other again; an’ says Mary Dolan at last: 

We’re in clover, me dears,’ says she, ^judgin’ be 
the spread beyont ’ — and she nods at the wee table. 

^ Ah, that’ll do for a start,’ says Sally Hogan; ^ but 
where in glory are we all to put our legs under that 
wee table? Sure it’ll be an ojus squeeze.’ 

^ It will so,’ says Jane Flaherty, ^ it will so. But 
isn’t it powerful quare o’ Hannah to keep us sittin’ here 
so long in our bonnets an’ shawls, an’ us dreepin’ wi’ 
the heat? ’ 

^ It’s the quarest hole I iver was put in,’ says Mary 
Dolan; ^ an’ if this is grandeur, give me the ould kitchen 
at home wi’ me feet on the hearth an’ me tay on a 

chair PJiew,'^ says Mary, an’ squints round at 

the windy, ^ phew, but it’s flamin’ hot ! Aw,’ says she, 
an’ makes a dart from her chair, ^ dang me, but I’ll 
burst if I don’t get a mouthful o’ fresh air.’ An’ just 
as she had her hand on the sash to lift it, the door opens 
an’ in steps me darlint Hannah. 

^ Good evenin’, ladies all,’ says Hannah, marchin’ in 
wi’ some kind of a calico affair, made like a shroud wi’ 
frills on it, hangin’ on her, ^ Good evenin’, ladies,’ says 
she, an’ wi’ her elbow cocked up in the air as if she 
was strivin’ to scrape it against the ceilin’, goes from 
one to another an’ shakes hands. ^ It’s a very pleasant 
afternoon ’ (them was the words), says she, makin’ for 
a chair beside the wee table; ^ an’ I’m very pleased to see 
ye all,’ says she. 

^ Aw, an’ the same here,’ says Mary Dolan in her 
free way, ^ the same here; an’ ojus nice ye look in that 


136 


IKISH PASTORALS 


sack of a calico dress, so ye do,’ says Mary, wi’ a wink 
at Jane Flaherty. ^ But it’s meself’d feel obliged to ye 
if so be you’d open the windy an’ give us a mouthful o’ 
fresh air,’ says Mary. 

An’ Hannah sits down in her shroud wi’ the frills 
on it, an’ smiles, an’ says she, ^ I’m rather delicate ’ 
(them were the words) ^ this afternoon, Mrs. Dolan, an’ 
afeerd o’ catchin’ cold; an’, forby that,’ says she, ^ the 
dust is so injurious for the parlour.’ 

^ Aw, just so,’ answers Mary, ^ just so. Sure, I 
wouldn’t for worlds have ye spoil your parlour for the 
likes of us. But I’ll ax your leave, Mrs. Breen, seein’ 
ye don’t ax me yourself, to give me own health a chance,’ 
says she, ^ be throwin’ this big shawl off me shoulders.’ 

^ But it’s afternoon tay, Mrs. Dolan,’ answers Han- 
nah, in her cool way; ^ an’ it’s not fashionable at after- 
noon tay for ladies to remove ’ 

^ Then afternoon tay be danged,’ says Mary, an’ 
throws the shawl off her across the back of her chair; 
^ an’ it’s meself’ll not swelter for all the fashions in the 
world,’ says she, an’ pushes her bonnet back an’ lets it 
hang be the strings down her back. ^ Aw, that’s great,’ 
says she, wi’ a big sigh; an’ at that off goes Jane’s shawl 
an’ bonnet, an’ off goes Sally’s; an’ there the three o’ 
them sits, wi’ Hannah lookin’ at them as disgusted as 

as ass at a field of thistles over a gate Aw, 

glory be,” cried Anne. Ho, ho ! ” 

Aw, me bould Anne,” cried Judy; me brave girl. 
Te-he! ” 

Good for you, Anne,” said I. Aw, me brave 
Judy. Hawyhaw!^^ 


THE HAYMAKEES 


137 


Well, dears, Hannah sits her down, puts her elbow 
on a corner o’ the ace o’ diamonds, rests her cheek on her 
hand, an’ goes on talkin’ about this an’ that. She hoped 
Mrs. Flaherty, an’ Mrs. Dolan, an’ Mrs. Hogan were 
well an’ prosperous; she hoped the crops were turnin’ 
out well; she hoped all the childer were in the best o’ 
good health. Aw, like the Queen o’ Connaught, Han- 
nah talked, an’ smiled, an’ aired herself an’ her beautiful 
English, but sorrow a move did she make to shift her 
elbow off the wee table-cloth, an’ divil a sign or smell o’ 
tay was there to be seen. Aw, not a one. Ten minutes 
went, an’ twenty, an’ half an hour; an’ at that, up Mary 
Dolan stretches her arms, gives a powerful big yawn, an’ 
says she, ‘ Och, dear Lord,’ says she, ‘ dear Lord, but the 
throat’s dry in me! Och, och,’ says she — an’ with the 
hint up gets Hannah in her frilled shroud, crosses the 
calf -skin, opens the door, an’ calls for Kitty. ‘ Tis, 
Mrs. Breen,’ answers Kitty from the kitchen. ^ Serve 
tay,’ calls Hannah; then closes the door an’ steps back 
to her chair by the wee table. 

In about ten minutes, here comes me darlint Kitty, 
boots an’ stockin’s an’ all; carries the taypot on a plate 
over to the table, an’ plants it down slap in the middle o’ 
the ace o’ diamonds. Up jumps Hannah wi’ a bounce. 

^ What are ye doin’, Kitty? ’ says she, with a snap 
of her jaw, an’ lifts the taypot, an’ glares at the black 
ring it had made on her brand new cloth. ^ D’ye see 
what you’ve done? ’ says she, lookin’ as black in the eyes 
as the bottom o’ the taypot. ‘ Stand back,’ says she, 
pointin’ her finger, ‘ stand back an’ mend your manners, 
ye ignerant little baggage ye I ’ 


138 


lEISH PASTOKALS 


^ YiSj ma’am/ answers Kitty, an’ stands back; then 
turns her head, when she gets to the calf -skin, an’ winks 
at the three sittin’ by the wall; an’ out Mary Dolan 
bursts into a splutter of a laugh. 

^ Aw, Lord,’ says Mary, an’ holds her ribs; ^ aw, 
dear Lord,’ says she. But Hannah, standin’ pourin’ the 
tay into the wee cups, just kept her face as straight as if 
Mary was a dummy, an’ in a minute she turns round to 
Kitty. 

^ Hand the cups to the ladies,’ says she, an’ sits her 
down. 

Well, childer dear, Kitty steps from the calf-skin, 
lifts two cups an’ saucers from the tray, carries them 
across the floor, an’ offers one to Jane Flaherty wi’ this 
hand, an’ t’other to Sally Hogan wi’ that hand. An’ 
Sally looks at the cup, an’ then at Kitty; an’ Jane looks 
at Kitty, an’ then at the cup, an’ says Sally: 

^ Is it take it from ye you’d have me do, Kitty Ma- 
lone?’ says she. 

^ It is so,’ answers Kitty wi’ a grin. 

^ An’ where in glory wid ye have me put it, Kitty 
Malone? ’ asks Sally, an’ looks here an’ there. ^ Sure — 
sure there’s no table next or near me,’ says she. 

‘ It’s afternoon tay, Mrs. Hogan,’ says Hannah 
across the floor; ^ an’ at afternoon tay, tables aren’t 
fashionable,’ says she, an’ grins to herself. 

^ Well, thank God, Hannah Breen,’ says Mary Do- 
lan, ^ that afternoon tay, as ye call it, has only come my 
way once in me life. Take the cup in your fist, Sally 
Hogan,’ says Mary, ^ an’ if ye break it, bad luck go with 
it, an’ if ye don’t, you’ve been a lady for once in your 


THE HAYMAKEES 


139 


life; an’ when you’re done, stick it there on the floor. 
I’m obliged to ye, Kitty Malone,’ says Mary again, an’ 
takes a cup ; ^ an’ if so be I choke meself wi’ the full o’ 
this thimble wi’ a handle on it,’ says Mary, an’ squints 
at the cup, ^ you’ll do me the favour to tell Pat I died a 
fool. An’ if such things go well wi’ afternoon tay, Kitty, 
agra, I’d trouble ye for a look at a spoon.’ .... Aw, 
me bould Mary,” cried Anne, and laughed in her glee. 

Ye were the girl for Hannah, so ye were. Ho, ho! ” 
Aw, ’deed ay,” cried Judy, and tittered most boister- 
ously. Aw, me brave Hannah. Te-he! ” 

Good for you, Mary Dolan,” cried I; and good for 
you, Anne, my girl. Haw, haw ! ” 

Then begins the fun, me dears. First of all, Sally 
Hogan in tryin’ to lift a bit o’ bread an’ butter from a 
plate that Kitty held before her, must spill her tay over 
her lap an’ start screechin’ that she was kilt. Then Mary 
Dolan must flnish her cup at a gulp, an’ f orgettin’ it was 
in Hannah’s parlour she was at afternoon tay, an’ not 
at home in the kitchen, must give the dregs a swirl an’ 
sling them over her shoulder against the wall. Then 
Sally Hogan again, in tryin’ to keep back a laugh at the 
tay-leaves on the wall, an’ the glare of Hannah across 
at them, must get a crumb in her throat an’ bring the 
whole room to thump her on the back. Then Jane 
Flaherty gets a second cup wi’ no sugar in it, an’ makes 
a face like a monkey’s, an’ gives a big splutter, an’ sets 
Kitty Malone off into a flt o’ laughin’; an’ Kitty sets 
Jane off, an’ Jane sets Mary off, an’ Mary sets Sally off; 
an’ there sits Hannah, in her calico shroud, beside the 
ace o’ diamonds, wi’ a face on her like a child cuttin’ its 


140 


IKISH PASTOKALS 


teeth, an’ her arm out, an’ her shoutin’ for Kitty to take 
herself out o’ the room. An’ in the middle o’ the whole 
hubbub the door opens, an’ in tramps big John in his 
dirty boots, wi’ his shirt-sleeves turned up, an’ hay-ropes 
round his legs, an’ his hat on the back o’ his head, an’ 
his pipe in his mouth — in steps John an’ stands lookin’ 
at them all. 

^Ho, ho,’ roars John, an’ marches across the calf- 
skin. ^ What have we here ? A tay party,’ says he, 
^ as I’m a livin’ sinner — an’ me not to know a thing 
about it! Well, better late nor niver,’ says he, then 
turns an’ looks at Hannah. ‘ Aw, how d’ye do, Mrs. 
Breen? ’ says he wi’ a laugh. ‘ I hope I see ye well in 
your regimentals. An’ how the blazes are the rest o’ 
ye, me girls? ’ says he to the three along the wall. ‘ I’m 
glad to see ye all so hearty an’ merry, so I am. But 
what in glory are ye all doin’ over there, away from the 
table? Why don’t ye sit over an’ have your tay like 
Christians?’ says he. ^ Come over, girls — come over 
this mortial minute,’ says John, ^ an’ I’ll have a cup wi’ 
ye meself, so I will.’ 

Then Hannah rises in her calico shroud. 

“ ‘ John,’ says she, ^ it’s afternoon tay it’ll be, an ta- 
bles ’ 

^ Aw, sit ye down, Hannah,’ shouts John, ^ sit ye 
down, woman, an’ be like another for once in a way.’ 

“ ‘ J ohn,’ says Hannah again, an’ looks knives an’ 
forks at him, ^ where’s your manners the day? ’ 

‘ Aw, manners be danged,’ roars John, an’ throws 
his hat into the corner; ^ give us a cup o’ tay an’ quit 
your nonsense. Come on, girls,’ says he to the women. 


THE HAYMAKEKS 


141 


^ come over an’ have a cup in comfort wi’ me here at the 
table.’ 

^^^John/ says Hannah again, ^ ye can’t sit at this 
table; it’s — it’s too small/ says she. 

“ ‘ Then pull it out from the wall/ roars J ohn, ^ pull 
it out an’ let us get round it. Come on/ says he, an’ 
grips an end o’ the table, ^ give it a lift across the floor.’ 

^ No, no, John,’ shouts Hannah, an’ grips t’other 
end to keep it from goin’; ^ ye mustn’t, John! ’ 

^ Out wi’ it,’ roars John again. 

^ No, no,’ shouts Hannah, ^ ye can’t — aw, ye can’t 
— aw, ye mustn’t — no, no, John! ’ 

^ Aw, to glory wi’ you an’ it,’ shouts John. ‘ Here, 
let me at it meself ! . . . . ’ 

An’ the next minute Hannah was screechin’ in her 
shroud; an’ there was a clatter o’ crockery, like as if a 
bull had gone slap at a dresser; an’ John was standin’ 
like as if he was shot, in Jhe middle of the floor; an’ 
lyin’ at his feet was the wee table, an’ the ace of dia- 
monds, an’ the whole o’ Hannah’s cups an’ saucers, an’ 
the taypot, an’ all, in a thousand pieces .... Aw, 
heart alive, .... heart alive! . . . .” 

Anne leant upon her rake and bowed head in laugh- 
ter. Two minutes grace she had; then said I: 

What had happened, Anne?” 

She looked at me. Happened? Sure the table was 
only an ould dressin’-table, an’ had only three legs, an’ 
was propped wi’ the lame side against the wall; an’ 
when John put it down in the middle of the floor — Aw, 

now,” cried Anne, that’s enough, that’s enough 

Aw, me sides — ^me sides. Ho, ho ! ” 


142 


lEISH PASTOKALS 


Aw, me sides — me sides/’ cried Judy, shaking be- 
low her big sunbonnet. Te-he! ” 

Aw, women alive,” cried I, sinking back on the 
hay. Haw, haw ! ” 

Prom the bank of the river came a great shout; then 
a skirl from Hal; then a burst of laughter from the men, 
and a cry from Jem: Look, John — look, John, quick.” 

I turned and looked, and there along the meadow lay 
spread the haycock which, at such a cost I had labori- 
ously builded. 

Good man, J ohn,” shouted Hal from the mowing- 
machine. Is that the way they build rucks in Lon- 
don?” 

I refrained from answering; but Anne Daly, taking 
pity upon me, stooped and said softly: It just wanted 
one thing, Mr. John; just one thing.” 

What was that, Anne? “ 

Like Hannah’s tay-table— ’twas lame of a leg.” 


THE EEAPERS 




I 


W HAT a magician is my Lord the sun. He 
hides his face and our hearts sadden, life is 
drear and the broad earth unkindly; out he 
comes with golden smile and gone are mists and gloom, 
our blood dances, life runs merrily, on hill and pasture 
behold all things become new — fields shining, hedges 
gleaming, joy and hope going pleasantly in all the val- 
leys. He smiles, we laugh and caper; he frowns, we 
cower and shiver; from the grim depths of winter we 
turn weary eyes upon the narrow path of his journey- 
ings, on the glorious heights of summer-time stand 
shouting at the triumph of his march: so from day to 
day he plays with us, controls us, pipes to and orders 
the dance of our little lives. 

We danced to many a tune, one remembers, that sum- 
mer of our coming again to Emo. Always there is 
my Lord a king; just then he was no less than a tyrant. 
He smote us, fawned upon us, sported with us, en- 
slaved us, made us kneel beseeching his pity and scat- 
tered bountifully the treasures of his wealth ; was fitful, 
treacherous, cruel, at last hid himself darkly within his 
cloak of grey and left us to the terrors of a pitiless sky. 

It was another deluge. Rain and wind, storm and 
fiood, blight and mist, we had them all in plenty and for 
many a day. Job himself set down within the circle 
of those stricken hills must surely ere long have cursed 
145 


146 


lEISH PASTOEALS 


God and died. It was pitiful. There seemed no hope. 
Those days of the hay-making in August, so tardy in com- 
ing and swift in going, so far away now and fondly re- 
membered, were the last for many a week of the magi- 
cian’s favour. There lay the river meadow — there still — 
soaked to its depths, Thrasna river brimming its edge, 
the face of it strewn with sodden haycocks, and flattened 
laps, and whole acres of meadow lying rotten in the 
swath; see the grass famishing on the hills, the turf 
swimming in the heather, the potatoes rotting in the up- 
lands, the corn flat and tangled in the valleys. The 
roads were swamps, the flelds sour; cattle died by 
scores; everywhere was sickness and weariness: one 
could do nothing but stand at the doors, or behind rat- 
tling windows, and looking up through the murk, pray 
God to stay the terrors of His hand. 

Then, one day, late it was in the rbyal month of Sep- 
tember, behold the sun out, the sky clear and the land 
smiling once more. In a twinkle it all came about, just 
with a shift of the wind and the breaking of another day; 
and just in a twinkle, you might say, there were we 
with our backs to all those miserable yesterdays and our 
faces flushed with the glory of a harvest morning. 

It was great — great to be out once more, with the 
earth firm to the foot and the sun warm in the blood, 
glorious to see life in the fields again, and the shadows 
on the mountain, and the gossamer clouds go skimming 
the great arch of the sky. Eain. Had it ever rained? 
Gloom. Could it ever be gloomy again? Surely all 
that back there, all that terrifying time, had never been, 
could never be on such a glorious earth? Surely. . . . 


THE KEAPERS 


147 


Wait. Think of the meadows lying soaked, thousands 
of acres of them lying waste between the hills. See the 
potato fields stretched out in their blackness, smitten 
already by the grim hand of famine. See the empty 
haggards, empty turf sheds, flaunting weeds, bedrag- 
gled crops; oh, a glorious earth it is surely that all day 
long sends up its incense of mist and rottenness towards 
the face of my Lord the sun. 

At the foot of Emo hill, between it and Ehamus, was 
a piece of reclaimed bog-land, some four or five acres in 
all, sown that year with wheat. It was a kindly field, 
the best in those parts, and for long enough its crop had 
been the envy of a country-side: now it lay in the sun- 
shine, tangled, rank, scarce worth the gathering. In 
places it stood tall as a rake, in places lay flat and sod- 
den; weeds and thistles sprang abundantly; and, as 
James Daly remarked, if you climbed a stalk you 
wouldn’t find in a month of Sundays what grain would 
feed a sparrow. Still straw makes good thatch, said 
Mike Brady, and women make cheap labour, and what 
the Almighty sends we’d better take; so, one morning, 
a week of sunshine having done somewhat in the way of 
ripening and drying, over the heather came Anne the 
wife of James, and Judy the wife of Mike, with their 
sickles on their shoulders, and bent their backs to the 
reaping. 

The arrangement was this. Each woman was to reap 
half the field, payment to be made by the full-sized 
stook; and that there might be no inequality in the con- 
ditions of work, it was further agreed between them- 
selves, at the instance of James the knowing be it said, 


148 


IKISH PASTOEALS 


that each should take alternate lands (these being the 
long wide ridges on which the crop stood); Anne all 
the odd lands, Judy all the even, the one remaining at the 
finish, if there w^ere one, to be shared between them. 
Furthermore, said Anne, tucking up her skirt: 

It’d be wise mebbe for the two of us to do our own 
tyin’ and stookin’. Who knows,” said Anne, looking 
over Judy’s head towards Khamus hill, who knows but 
one of us mebbe might reap more than t’other; an’ 
then . . . 

There was no need for Anne to say further. Judy 
understood perfectly. Eight well she knew what Anne 
meant and how Anne was thinking; but, thought Judy, 
with a tightening of her thin lips and a hardening of her 
pinched face, please God it wasn’t herself would do less 
than Anne Daly that blessed day. No. Ah, she knew 
well how Anne was thinking. It was a way she had; a 
fashion of looking down on people, of imagining that the 
only woman of account in the town-land went by the 
name of Daly; ay, that was Anne’s way. ^^Alaybe one 
of us would do more than t’other,” said she. Ah, yes. 
But wait, thought Judy, and hook on shoulder stood 
twisting the band of her first sheaf; maybe ’twas another 
word would be on Anne’s tongue before night-fall. Just 
wait! And scrunch went Judy’s hook through the 
golden wheat. 

If Judy did no less than Anne in the first hour or two 
of that first morning of the reaping, assuredly that was 
not Anne Daly’s fault. A 'child could see that Anne 
was holding herself back; it needed no more than a 
glance of Anne’s knowing eyes to see that Judy was 


THE EEAPEES 


149 


striving her hardest. And clearly she did see it, did 
Anne Daly; and smiled pityingly at the seeing. 

The poor crature/’ said Anne within herself, fingers 
busy with a band and eyes following Judy as from right 
to left she came cutting fiercely across her land; the 
poor deludhered crature. Sure if I only tried it’s two 

sheaves to her one I’d reap An’ here’s her 

strivin’ wi’ me, her with about as much strength in her 
bones as a sick goat! .... Still she’s a neighbour — 
an’ her company’s better nor lonesomeness — an’ strivin’s 
only child’s diversion — an’ God knows, anyway, I pity 
the poor donny crature an’ I mustn’t be hard on her, 
so I mustn’t. Ah, no; I mustn’t be hard on her,” said 
Anne, and leisurely, with that finished ease which comes 
of ample strength and skill, gathered a sheaf within its 
band, bound and cast it from her knee; ah, no. Sure 
it’s best to be neighbourly, so it is. Ay. Tell me, 
Judy,” she said aloud, did iver ye see the like how 
things alter wi’ the weather? Sure it’s wonderful. 
Here, last week or so, were we with the hearts washed 
out of us, an’ the sky above us as gloomy lookin’ as a 
hearse at a funeral; an’ now” — Anne stood upright, 
rested hands on hips, and slowly fed her eyes on the sun- 
bright countryside — now you’d think a’most there 
hadn’t been a drop o’ rain since Noah’s ark. Ay, ye 
would. Niver would ye think to look at things that the 
turf’s yonder in mud, an’ the praties lyin’ rottin’ over 
there, an’ the hay soakin’ beyont along the river. Ah, 
no. It’s powerful deceivin’ so it is. Sure the sun can 
do what it likes with iverything. Ay, it can. An’ the 
different kind o’ feel that comes over oneself — a new 


150 


IRISH PASTORALS 


kind o’ feel like as if you’d stepped bang out of a sick 

bed ” Anne paused, sighed contentedly, bent to 

work. Aw, I don’t know what it is,” said she; I 
dunno; but it’s powerful pleasant anyway Ay, it is. 
Och, but that sun’s powerful comfortin’ to the back,” 
said Anne; then, Judy not responding, swiftly made 
haste to regain the sheaf or two she had lost in the min- 
utes of her sky-gazing. 

For a while the women worked in silence, slowly and 
laboriously cutting their way up the tangled lands; Judy 
never pausing, never looking up even, going doggedly 
on; Anne taking things leisurely, looking at the hills as 
she stood twisting a band, resting for a minute to look 
towards home, following the progress of a cart along the 
road or of the Master across the fields, sometimes hum- 
ming a tune or lilting an air, ever and again watching 
Judy from the corner of her eye and smiling at the 
foolishness of the body. To think of her striving like 
that, thought Anne; and what was worse, sulking as she 
strove. Not a word had passed her lips for a whole 
hour. Her face was as hard as the door-post, her lips 
as tight together as tuppence in a rag. What ailed the 
woman, at all, at all? Odious sudden the change had 
come over her. She had been civil enough at first. 
Nothing Anne knew of had come to give her offence — 
nothing except the word or two, spoken in pure good 
will and just as a matter of caution, that had passed about 
the binding and stooking. Yet here was the woman 
striving and sulking, and never lifting her head! Was 
she sick, or vexed, or what? Was the work too much 
for her, or the sun too hot? Was she fretting? Ah, 


THE KEAPERS 


151 


what in glory ailed the woman? thought Anne; then 
turned and spoke : 

Judy. I say, Judy. What in sorrows^ name ails 
ye? Judy never answered. Are ye frettin’, or sick, 
or what? ’’ Anne went on, hands on knees and her eyes 
on Judy. Is the work troublin’ ye? ” Still no word. 

Is there anything I’ve done to ye, then? ” Anne con- 
tinued. Or is there anything I’d be able to do for 
ye?” 

Judy looked round. 

Ye can do nothin’,” said she. There’s nothin’ 
ailin’ me. I wouldn’t have ye — ” Judy paused, wiped 
her brow; went on reaping. 

Finish the word,” said Anne, still with her face to- 
wards Judy and hands on her knees. Woman dear, 
speak out. Is it afeerd you’d be? ” 

Afraid! Round flashed Judy. 

Afeerd?” cried she. An’ of what, may I ax? 
Is it of you — of you, Anne Daly? Arrah, don’t think 
it 1 What about ye I What about ye, I say? Amn’t I as 
good as you — ay, an’ better — any day? Arrah, what 
about ye. You an’ your airs an’ your condescension I ” 
Anne rose to her full height and, arms straight down, 
face slowly changing, stood looking upon J udy. 

Keep your pity,” cried Judy, shrilly and bitterly; 
keep your pity for them that want it. I’m as good as 
you, Anne Daly — as good a woman,” cried Judy, point- 
ing her hook; as good a worker, an’ as good a reaper. 
Ye hear me,” shrilled Judy, shooting out an arm; for 
all your boastin’ as good a reaper.” 

Just a minute Anne stood face to face with Judy; 


152 


lEISH PASTOEALS 


then, quickly, her head went back and she laughed mer- 
rily. Aw, Lord sees,’’ said Anne. Lord sees. 
Liaten to that now. Think of it. Childer dear. ^ Fm 
as good as you,’ says she; ^ as good a woman,’ says Judy; 
^ an’ as good a reaper.’ That’s the word is it; an’ thaVs 
the mystery. Ah, to be sure.” She took a step for- 
ward. Tell me, Judy Brady: are ye meanin’ this, or 
is it only a piece o’ your foolery? ” 

Foolery an’ me are bad friends,” answered Judy; 

an’ what I don’t mean I don’t say.” 

Don’t ye, faith?” Again Anne laughed. I’m 
obliged to ye for the knowledge. Sure one lives an’ 

learns, as the sayin’ is But look ye here, Judy, 

agra; there’s things in this world that’s worth the prov- 
in’. If you’re as good a woman as meself then I’m sorry 
to be alive, an’ that’s all I’ll say about that; but about 
the reapin’ ” — Anne raised her hook, spat on its handle 
and twirled it — I’d like to try ye.” She stooped, 
hook ready and eyes on Judy. Are ye ready, Mrs. 
Brady? ” 

What could Judy do? In her heart she knew herself 
to be a fool; knew that she had said too much, that 
against Anne she had no chance of success, that only 
heart-break and weariness might come of her foolishness. 
Still .... still .... still .... 

I’m ready,” said J udy. 

And the sickles flashed. 


THE EEAPEKS 


153 


II 

It was a boast with James Daly, usually on those rare 
occasions when Bunn whisky had his tongue in thrall, that 
Anne, his wife, was the finest specimen of womankind 
in all Fermanagh; the best favoured and the most gifted, 
as good with tongue as with head and better with hands 
than with either. That this was James^ real opinion 
we may take as gospel, that it was Anne’s own opinion is 
easy of belief, that it must have been yours also, had it 
been your chance to see her that first day of our Emo 
harvesting, is not to be doubted. 

She made a fine figure of a woman, did Anne; big, 
robust, comely; round and rosy of cheek, bright and 
clear of eye, arm strong and shapely, neck full and firm; 
none of your sickly nymphs of parlour or pavement, 
but a wholesome daughter of the hills, a woman of parts, 
character, substance, sharp of tongue, quick in thought 
and action, a better man, said James her husband (and 
more than James maybe), in turf -bog or meadow than 
half the whiskers of the countryside. Certainly she was 
no longer young, nor lithe, and time had taken to him- 
self much of her once notorious prowess of foot and arm; 
but, even in face of these calamities, James’ boast of her 
went still unchallenged, and still might he aifirm without 
fear of cavil that she and a sickle were worth not less 
than half a reaping-machine. 

Perhaps, that morning — if one adopts for the occasion 
a marital, and glorified, system of reckoning — Anne was 
worth more than half; for was she not on her mettle 


154 


IRISH PASTORALS 


and braced for worthy deeds? She meant to let people 
see, to make the sheaves fly, to do a day’s work, noise of 
which should ring about the countryside, setting folk 
talking and wondering round many a hearth. Her repu- 
tation was at stake. Judy Brady had challenged her. 

I’m as good a woman, and as good a reaper ” ; that 
was the word. Was she? Judy Brady, little wizened 
el udy Brady? She ! Oh, by the powers, but she’d show 
her; and not her only — no, not her, for she scorned the 
striving with her — but all the others, all the knowing 
ones who were jealous of her and had the word that her 
best day was past. Past? She’d show them. Why, 
she felt strong as a horse. What if the sun was hot, 
and the wheat tangled, and the thistles big as black- 
thorns; what of these, thought Anne, and arms bare, 
skirt tucked high about her waist, bodice-neck open and 
sunbonnet tied loosely about her chin — what of these, 
thought Anne, and from left to right and right to left 
went tumbling the golden wheat. 

The harder the work the greater the glory; the hotter 
the sun the better the day; come down, said Anne in 
the pride of her strength and skill: and down came the 
rustling wheat. Slowly and steadily her feet went 
dragging through the stubble, quick and constantly her 
hook flashed in and out; just a cut for the band, just 
four or five big handfuls, then a turn of the hook over 
her shoulder, a tug and a twist — and there lay the sheaf 
at her feet. And there was no hurry, no unseemly flus- 
ter resulting in long stubble, scattered straws, and maybe 
a gashed wrist: oh, not at all. That was not Anne 
Daly’s way. Quick and sure was the word with her. 


THE EEAPEES 


155 


No need was there to fret over trifles, or to stand blind 
whilst she twisted and tied the bands, or to be deaf to 
all the sounds of work and life that came flowing over 
the hills; no need on earth was there to make work a 
toil, or to feel lonesome, or to go silent of song and 
lilt adown the stubble. She had worked and striven 
before, knew well the arts and rules of the game. 
Quick and sure was the word, heart merry, body willing, 
face to work and back to the foe — the foe toiling there 
far behind, the foe that not once these hours past had she 
so much as deigned to look back upon. Aw, poor Judy; 
poor little Judy Brady! ’’ 

Ah, poor Judy; poor little Judy Brady, indeed. 
Hers was a hard fate that day. Already, and not once 
but many times, had she gathered bitter fruit of her fool- 
ishness. She was far behind, very far, and that even 
whilst the day was not yet at the full. Each time she 
came to the edge of her land and looked — timorously, 
anxiously — along the furrow, it seemed that within flve 
minutes Anne had gone perches for her yards, reaped 
three sheaves for her one; each time she rose to twist 
or tie a band and saw that big sunbonnet go bobbing 
among the sheaves, Judy’s heart fell and it was with her 
as if Anne were running in the race and she only crawl- 
ing. She looked back along the sheaf -strewn stubble — 
such a little way it was; she looked over the wheat out 
towards the fleld-head — such a long, long way it was. 
Doggedly, feverishly, she cut across the land, dog- 
gedly and still more feverishly cut back; then, sheaf 
on knee and hook on shoulder, stole a look, a halting 
bodeful look Oh, she was miles away. She 


156 


lEISH PASTORALS 


would never catch her, not if she worked day and night 
and every hour of them. It was cruel. It was bitter. 
She would be disgraced. She would die before night- 
fall. She felt weak, thirsty, tired. The sun was like 
fire upon her back — her narrow little back; and upon 
her head — her foolish little head, with its withered face 
and hungry eyes and scanty twist of hair below an old 
rush hat. Her hands were sore, covered with pricks and 
wounds. Her feet were bruised, were like lead. 
Thump, thump, went something in her forehead; thump, 
thump, as she stooped and plodded. Every bone in her 
ached and cried; she was smoking hot ; there were times 
when she felt ready to sink upon the stubble, or rush for 
home, or strip naked in a mad skelter for the river. 
Ah, but the hours dragged. Ah, but the sun was cruel. 

Rest? No, she must not rest. Give up? Go to 
Anne and say she was beaten? No — no — no ! Not if she 
were dying. Oh, she would get quicker. She must get 
quicker. She was out of practice. She had fallen upon 
a heavy patch. In another hour or so she would be 
hardened to the work, used to the sun; in a little while 
would be out of that wilderness, over that weary 
bank on which the wheat stood like bulrushes, out and 
away for head of the field. If only she could hurry 
now, hurry for just a while; if only she could catch up 

a yard or two by dinner-time Where — where 

was Anne now? Ah, God’s mercy, she was farther 
away than ever! Never could she catch her .... 
But she must; must work harder and quicker, must 
hurry back from dinner, must work late that night, 
must — must Afi; ray Father,” cried Judy, 


THE EEAPEES 


157 


and turning looked piteously towards home, will din- 
ner-time niver, niver come? ’’ 

* It came at last, that long expected hour of one o’clock, 
came shouted from the hills and whistled shrilly from 
the fields; came like an angel’s blessed message to Judy 
and sent her speeding for home. She had far to go and 
must needs hurry. The way was rough and tortuous, 
now running over the broken ends of potato-ridges, now 
winding past bogholes and turf -banks in and out through 
the heather, now rising suddenly for the hills and going 
on past the whins and rushes, the hedges and ditches, up 
through the rain-blanched fields : it was a weary way and 
Judy was very weary; still, what mattered these things 
now? Had she not an hour, a whole hour, in which to rest 
back and bones, and to satisfy the wolves of hunger? 
Was she not free at last, free if only for an hour, from 
the tyranny of the sun and the brutality of toil? A whole 
hour! Fifteen minutes home, fifteen back; the rest in 
blessed luxury on a chair by the table. It was great. 
What mattered now all that lay there behind — the broad 
lands, the ugly stubble, the broiling sun, the weariness 
and heartache; what mattered either all that might 
happen out there — there beyond that hour of rest, be- 
tween it and the dark. Let all that go. She was free 
now. Work was nothing to her. Anne was nothing 
to her 

Anne? What was Anne doing? Was she working 
still? Eeluctantly, but inevitably, Judy turned on the 
crest of Ehamus and had sight of Anne in the valley 
below, her skirt fiowing loose, sleeves down, sunbonnet 
in hand, making leisurely through the heather on her 


158 


lEISH PASTOKALS 


way towards home. Oh, easy for her to take time, 
easy to go flaunting beneath the sun. Heavens 
above,’’ cried Judy, turning in a panic, will I niver, 
niver get home ? ” 

Across another fleld or two, over the Bunn road and 
down a boreen; and there was home at last, the door 
open, the fowls squawking on the street, the pig squeal- 
ing in the sty, the children waiting patiently for mother 
and dinner. Ah, mammy, mammy,” they called, 

here’s mammy”; then gathered round Judy’s 
skirts and with her flocked into the smoke-wreathed 
kitchen. 

Ifo time in there for the decencies of civilization, no 
chance of its luxuries ; no white cloth on a well-scrubbed 
table, with knives and forks, plates and spoons, and 
smoking dishes for which to render unto God due thanks. 
No, no. These things — mercies we call them — are for 
others, not for Judy Brady and her kind. A full quiver, 
a two-roomed cabin, somewhere to sleep and a little to 
eat: such, year in year out, is the portion in life doled 
out to the Bradys. There are not three knives in the 
house, not two forks; there is no cloth, no meat, only a 
rickety table, a few stools and chairs, a tin or two, a pot 
or two, and of the earth’s good increase potatoes and salt, 
tea and buttermilk, a handful of Indian meal and a cake 
of soda bread. Think of that, ye pampered citizens; 
think of it and just for a minute peep through the smoke 
at the Bradys at dinner. 

See; Judy sets a basket over a tub, lifts a pot from the 
Are, grips it by the foot in a corner of her skirt and 
empties it into the basket. A great and pungent steam 


THE EEAPERS 


159 


rolls Tip; the water rushes off; soon you have sight of 
a heap of potatoes, not quite clean, not very large, not 
altogether savoury — but hot, ay, piping hot. No time 
to lose. Judy hurries to the dresser, brings a noggin of 
milk (sour buttermilk it is at a penny a gallon) and a 
saucer of salt, pulls a stool to the basket and sits down. 

Gather up, childer,’^ she says; and the children gather 
up, some on stools, one kneeling by the tub, another hun- 
kered on the floor. Whew ! How hot the potatoes are. 
From hand to hand they toss them, peel them as best 
they can, dip them into the salt; down they go with just 
a relish of buttermilk wherewith to cool and to flavour. 
There is full silence in there; not a head turns to the' 
sunlight, not an eye moves from the basket; ding-dong 
it is, quick and steadily, from first to last. Yes; maybe 
it is barbaric, or brutish, or whatever you like: still, 
beggars may not choose, you know, and not seldom but 
often do these barbarians of Bradys thank the great 
Giver of all for His mercies 

But wait. The basket is empty and the noggin; din- 
ner is over; and now — ah, now Judy is happy. Now 
luxury reigns in the house of the Bradys. See Judy sit- 
ting there like a queen, in this hand a slice of bread and 
dripping, in that a bowl of strong black tea. You see 
her? Now she takes a bite and a sip; now the children 
take each a sip and a bite, one by one round all the flock. 
You see them; and you see Judy? Is she not happy? 
Happy; ay, as a queen on her throne, for just that 
five minutes of tea and luxury. Watch how she shuts 
her eyes and lingeringly sips, her knees crossed the 
while, shoulders relaxed, and elbow poised on a hand. 


160 


IKISH PASTOEALS 


The little Sybarite ! Her brow is smooth, her eye mild 
and contented; she is flushed, almost radiant. Ho 
thought of work now, or of the tyrant sun, or of Anne 
in her sunbonnet. Ho, no. Judy tastes heaven now. 

All gone. She puts down the bowl, sighs as she looks 
towards the door; leans back and closes her eyes. 
Gradually her head sinks; the children’s voices come 
dreamily from the flelds ; her breathing quickens .... 
just a minute of sweet sleep .... then a start, a leap 
from her chair — and J udy once more is facing life and 
the sun. 

Hurriedly, almost running at times, Judy toiled across 
the flelds; came to the wheat-fleld, just as the hay carts 
went clanking from Emo, and at once set to work. Eor 
some yards before her the crop stood straight and high; 
the sun had gone under a passing cloud; she felt fresher, 
stronger, glad of heart too at thought that she was back 
before Anne and gaining ground at every stroke. Yes; 
surely she was gaining now. Every sheaf was another 
to the good. If only Anne would delay her coming for 
a while; if only something — sickness, sleep, no matter 
what — would keep her away for another half hour; if 
only, thought Judy and twisted her head towards Kha- 
mus hill, if only 

Ah, but there she was! Ho matter. She had gained 
something; she felt able now, thank God, to hold her 
own with anyone. Let Anne come. Who cared? Anne 
Daly, indeed ! Look at her coming through the heather, 
one foot dragging after another as if she were stepping 
to a burial. See her flaunting over the stubble, head 
back, arms swinging, her face all grins and impu- 


THE EEAPEES 


161 


dence; flaunting along in her superior way. Let her 
flaunt. Who cared? 

Ah, but Judy despised her. Who was Anne Daly, 
in the name of goodness, to rig herself out in such airs; 
and what better was she than another? Anne Daly, 
indeed, who hadn’t sixpence in the world that didn’t 
come from Patsey in the States. See her above there, 
leisurely rolling up her sleeves, tucking up her skirt. Ax- 
ing the strings of her sunbonnet; pretending to take 
everything so easily, pretending it was the simplest thing 
in life to beat J udy Brady at the reaping. Is it, then? ” 
cried Judy, fiercely within herself. Is it, then? Oh, 
by the king, but I’ll show her ! ” And her blood surging 
with the potency of tea and potatoes, Judy stooped to 
the showing. 

The afternoon wore on, heavy with autumnal heat and 
the burden of the drowsy hours. The whole country 
seemed gone asleep in the big eye of the sun, with only 
a child here and there playing in it, or a dog yapping at 
the sky, or a cart going softly out into that other coun- 
try — the country away towards the mountain, or out 
beyond the shining river, or across the crouching hills; 
the land whence came those distant sounds of life and 
where maybe were folk whose portion was not sleep ; the 
land that was anywhere outside Emo. You could al- 
most feel the quietude just as you could almost see the 
shimmering heat. Hardly a sound was there. The 
fields seemed deserted. Here and there you looked, 
from hill to hill, across the bog, away through the haze 
towards Bunn or back towards the long dim moun- 
tain : then, quite suddenly, heard the carts clanking back 


162 


IKISH PASTOEALS 


from the meadows, heard voices above in the haggard, 
heard the sound of a woman singing at her work and 
saw two figures move aslant through the wheat far 
down in the misty valley. So there was life in old Emo 
after all. 

Well might Anne Daly go singing through that 
drowsy afternoon. Good luck and good humour were 
hers that day. All the morning things had gone well 
with her; now things were going even better still. 
Work went easily. The weather was kindly. Thoughts 
ran pleasantly. Think of going home to dinner and 
finding on the dresser that letter from Patsey; a long 
letter enclosing an order for twenty dollars and a pic- 
ture of Patsey himself all grand in his policeman’s uni- 
form with his big staff and his big moustache. Think 
also of finding her brand new dress waiting ready on a 
chair; all red it was, with beads upon it and broad braid 
and the brightest of buttons, and it fitting her like a 
glove. No wonder she had enjoyed her dinner — ^her 
toasted herring with potatoes and bread and a mug of 
tea at the end — and had lingered over it, when all 
through it Patsey’s order had been lying in her lap, and 
Patsey’s picture propped against the noggin before her, 
and the brand new dress hanging at her elbow on a chair ; 
no wonder she had loitered over her tea, and was long- 
ing for night, and meantime was feeling happy as a 
bird. Ah, but she would cut a fling on Sunday through 
the chapel gates; ah, but the women would squirm on the 
pavements next market day in Bunn; ah, but she would 
laugh to see James’ face that night when he set eyes on 
the letter and the picture and the money order. Sing? 


THE EEAPEES 


163 


She had to sing. Work? She gloried in it that blessed 
day. See how much she had reaped since morning, more 
than half a land, as much as two women might reap in 
the time; as much as Judy would do from sunrise to 
sunset. 

Ah, poor Judy, thought Anne and shook her head; 
poor, poor Judy! There she was toiling away, moiling 
and striving, breaking her heart with vexation, looking 
towards her sometimes with angry, jealous eyes. It’s 
no use Judy, agra; no use at all. Better give up your 
foolishness at once, own you’re beaten, shake hands and 
forgive and forget. Ear better do that, Judy, than go 
bursting your little heart there in the sun. It’s no use, 
Judy; you haven’t the strength and you haven’t the 
knack. Just watch a minute, woman alive, till you see 
how I do it. See, a cut and a twist and there’s the band ; 
now one, two, three, and there’s a handful for you, one, 

two, three, and there’s half a sheaf There’s no 

fluster, Judy; no bungling and no temper. It’s all 
knowledge, Judy; that and a share of strength. Lis- 
ten to the crisp cut I have with a hook. Listen to the 
soft rustle of the wheat as it falls before me. See 
how easily I’m taking things, fresh as a lark, merry 
as a sandpiper; and listen, Judy, you poor wee crea- 
ture, listen to the song I’m singing through this 
blessed day. 

Well indeed might Anne lift up her voice in singing; 
and well might J udy, at sound of it, go vexing her heart 
in bitterness. With her things were not making for the 
better, but from bad to worse only. The morning had 
been wretched; the afternoon was pitiable. Nothing 


164 : 


lEISH PASTOEALS 


seemed to go right, nothing whatever. Her hook was 
blunt, its handle loose; the wheat was tough and heavy, 
as tangled and contrary as things themselves; the sun 
was terrible, smiting her as though she were the only 
sinner in the world; her feet were blistered, her hands 
scratched and bleeding; her back ached, her head 
whirled and throbbed, not a bone had she that did not 
cry aloud: and she was so hungry again, was this 
wretched little Judy. Long ago had the impulse given 
of tea and potatoes died out; long ago had all hope of 
conquering Anne withered away. She knew she was 
doing foolishly; fervently she longed for food and rest; 
twenty times already had she been tempted to throw down 
her hook and make friends with Anne : and here for the 
twenty and first time was she fighting both temptation 
and longing with all her strength. Everything was 
against her, yet she would not give way. Nothing fa- 
voured her, yet still she strove. The harder she tried 
the less did she seem to achieve; it was certain that 
striving with Anne meant bitter defeat; whether she 
strove or not it would be all the same in the end — not 
a penny the more or a trouble the less : everything was 
against her, yet on she plodded, never resting, seldom 
wavering, pressed on against will and strength by the 
fierce impulse of jealous spleen that held and mastered 
her. Give way, said she; give way to Anne Daly? 
No; not till she dropped gasping! She might be 
beaten, be disgraced; but never should it be said of her 
that she had not striven to the end. Let Anne talk 
and flout, sing and boast; let people say what they 
would; let happen what might, for that day at least 


THE EEAPEES 


165 


she .... Listen to her singing over there. Ah, but 
Judy hated her; and not that day only and for that day’s 
work alone, but always and for many a thing. She 
remembered many a slight, many a grudge. How 
often had Anne Daly treated her like dirt and spoken 
to her as to a tinker’s hussy? Who went telling stories 
to the neighbours about Judy Brady’s children and Judy 
Brady’s affairs? Who had said that Mike and she were 
always squabbling, and the children in tatters, and the 
house a disgrace, and herself half-starved? .... Oh, 
not for that day’s work only had Judy a grudge against 
Anne, but for the doings of many a day. It all came 
back to her, rushing back as she toiled wearily among 
the wheat, and filled her with anger. Who was Anne 
Daly? she asked herself again, maybe for the thousandth 
time that day; and what better was she than another? 
Even if she was big and ugly, even if she had two 
dresses to her back and a new one coming, even if she 
had a brother in the Chicago police and a trifle in the 
bank that he had sent her, even if she was able to read 
and write and figure; what of that and all that? cried 
Judy within herself; then lifted eyes and saw Anne 
bending low on the next land, reaping there in her 
prideful strength and raising her voice insolently in sing- 
ing. Singing? That was another of her tricks; 
another of her ways of showing how easily she could 
conquer and how little she cared. Singing? Might 
sorrow choke her! Look at the big body of her, the 
big red arms, the scarecrow of a face. Ah, if she were 
only near her for a minute — with her hands, the hook, 
with anything; only at her face for a minute till she 


166 


lEISH PASTOKALS 


killed the singing in her! Might sorrow choke her. 
Might she gash her arm. Might she die in the work- 
house. Might 

Ah, stop your trapple over there/’ shouted Judy at 
last, quivering from crown to heel. Is it that ye want 
to deafen me? Isn’t it enough to be bearin’ the corn- 
crakes all the night without havin’ your screechin’ to 
bear all the day? Quit wi’ ye,” shouted Judy; I’m 
sick o’ ye! ” 

Slowly Anne drew herself erect, slowly turned; set 
hands on hips and steadily, from the depths of her sun- 
bonnet, eyed Judy across the stretch of wheat that stood 
between them. 

^^Aw,” said she, as Judy paused; aw, an’ is that 
yourself, Mrs. Judy Brady? Faith now, but I’m glad 
to be seein’ ye. Sure ’twas at home I imagined ye to 
be.” Anne laughed. Aw, good evenin’,” she went 
on and bobbed her head mockingly; good evenin’ to ye, 
Mrs; Judy Brady.” 

An’ g’ luck to you, Anne Daly; an’ bad luck to ye,” 
answered Judy in a splutter of wrath; then hurried 
along the innermost furrow, came near to Anne and 
stretched an arm. Listen to me,” she cried across the 
wheat. I scorn the face o’ ye — I’m ’shamed to be in 
sight o’ ye — I don’t care that for ye.” Judy snapped 
her fingers. For all your capers, I tell ye again that 
I’m as good as you — an’ better, ay, better — a better 
woman, an’ a better ” 

At loss of a word — maybe wisely at loss, for in face of 
facts even anger might not hide from her how com- 
pletely she was delivering herself into Anne’s hands — 


THE REAPERS 


167 


Judy paused; and quick at heels of the pause came 
Anne^s thrust. 

Is that you again, Mrs. Brady, dear?’’ she asked, 
rising on tiptoe and craning forward. I’m bearin’ 
somethin’ over there, but sure — Aw, it is yourself. 
Well now! But would it be troublin’ ye, Mrs. Brady,” 
said Anne in her suavest way, to be gettin’ up on a 
stone or somethin’ out o’ the furrow till I get a look at 
ye? Sure I’m doin’ me best — ;-but, och, the wheat is 
high between us.” 

Again Anne laughed mockingly; and again Judy 
spluttered and quivered and cried. 

^^High?” said she. High, is it you’d be sayin’? 
Aw, an’ I wish to glory it was twice as high an’ was 
hidin’ your ugly countenance from the eyes o’ me. Look 
at ye over there, as big an’ fat as a Mullingar store-fed. 
. . . . Ah, you’re laughin’ again, are ye? Well, laugh 
away. It’s all ye can do, that an’ go spreadin’ scandal 
over the country about your neighbours, an’ boastin’ 
about you an’ yours, an’ runnin’ down them that’s bet- 
ter nor you. Who are you, Anne Daly, I ax ye?” 
cried Judy, once more fixing Anne with a trembling arm. 

What impidence is it of ye to dare open your lips about 
me or mine? Listen to me,” cried Judy, and shook a 
fist across the wheat. If iver I hear again that the 
name o’ me crosses your lips I’ll — I’ll — be the king. I’ll 
flitter ye,” shouted this heroic little Judy. I’ll come 
an’ I’ll fiitter ye. Te hear me? The impidence of ye,” 
Judy went on responsive to Anne’s scornful laugh ; the 

— the Ah, what can I say to ye that’s bad 

enough? Look at ye over there,” cried Judy, with a 


168 


IRISH PASTORALS 


sudden hark-back to personalities; ^Mook at the big 
ugly, mean face o’ ye. Ah, if I was only at it for two 
minutes — if I only was ! ” 

The laughter died in Anne’s eyes; still with hands on 
her hips, she looked along the narrow stretch of wheat 
that stood between her and Judy. 

There’s only that between us,” she said, nodding. 
Will I be cornin’ to you or you to me? ” 

Judy blanched a little; then looked her bravest. 

It’s — it’s as ye like, Anne Daly;” and at the 
halting words and at sight of Judy’s face, Anne 
laughed again, and turned away, and turned again 
and spoke. 

Ah, Lord sees,” she said; Lord sees an’ save us, 
for I’ll die this day ! . . . . J udy Brady, what in glory’s 
name’s come to ye, or what romancin’ is this I’ll be 
bearin’? Ach, woman dear, what ails ye? 
What ? ” 

I want none o’ your questionin’. Fat Anne.” 

I want less o’ your impidence. Yellow Judy,” re- 
torted Anne; an’ at this mortial minute I’m wishful 
for none o’ your company. I’m sick o’ ye, Judy,” said 
Anne, with a wave of her arm; an’ I’m ’shamed o’ ye. 
. . . . Woman alive, what have I done to ye, or what’s 
come over ye all in a day? Just because I spoke a sensi- 
ble word to ye this mornin’ .... Ah, go to your 
reapin’,” said Anne half turning; an’ do somethin’ 
that’ll be a credit to ye. Whisht your noise an’ go. 
Look,” said Anne and pointed towards Judy’s sheaves; 

look at your day’s work. Tliafs all that’s come o’ 
your strivin’; thafs all you’ve got to look back upon 


THE EEAPEKS 


169 


• . . . Ah, quit wastin’ your time where you’re 
not wanted. I’ll not hear ye,” cried Anne, spread- 
ing a hand against Judy’s protests; an’ I’ll not 
quarrel wi’ ye; an’ I’ll strive no more wi’ ye. Go your 
own ways, Judy Brady, an’ ask the Lord to give ye 
sense.” 

At sound of shrill whistling behind her, Anne paused, 
looked round and saw a boy come slowly through the 
heather carrying a basket and a tin can. Aw, Lord 
be thanked,” said she with a sigh; sure it’s Johnny 
cornin’ with the tay.” She threw down her hook, 
walked some yards along the stubble; then halted and 
turned again to Judy. I say, Judy,” said she, quit 
your capers an’ come an’ have a sup. There’s enough 
an’ to spare, an’ you’re welcome.” 

Not if I was dyin’ for it,” answered Judy defiantly, 
not if me tongue was parched would I taste your tay, 
Anne Daly ” ; then slowly went down the furrow and 
came to her stubble again and bent low and went on 
with her reaping. Very hungry she was and tired, sore 
racked in mind and body; but still was her spirit un- 
tamed and her will unbroken. 

I’ll beat her yet,” she muttered. I’ll not give in. 
I’ll be even with her yet.” Steadily she worked on; 
then, quite suddenly, stood upright, looked towards 
Thrasna river and softly laughed. Ho, ho,” she 
laughed; ho, ho ” Judy had an idea. 

Then the sun fell; the shadows died upon the hills; 
in the valleys the mists began to creep : and down from 
the west stole old Night in his cloak with gifts of peace 
and rest and sweet sleep in his hands. 


170 


IKISH PASTOKALS 


III 

About ten o’clock that night, J udy slipped ont of bed, 
dressed quietly, crept noiselessly over the clay floor 
down to the kitchen; there drank some tea from a por- 
ringer that stood in the hot ashes, laced on her boots, 
threw a shawl about head and shoulders, lifted the 
latch, and munching a piece of bread, stepped softly out 
into the moonlight. 

The night was clear and very bright with the moon at 
the full; and though the hour was early, everything 
everywhere was strangely quiet — everything except the 
dogs here and there among the poplars and the drums 
rolling softly far off in Orange Gorteen. But in Emo 
and Bilboa nothing stirred, not a foot on the roadway, 
not a hand in the darkened cottages; even the beasts 
were quiet there, all hushed and sleeping beneath the 
moon. 

Leaving the boreen, Judy turned along the Bunn 
road, walking swiftly in its middle through the gray dust 
and eating her bread as she went; hurried up the slope 
towards Lackan, turned at Stonegate down the Clackan 
road, and at foot of the hill turned again through a 
gateway along the lane which bends round into Emo 
bog. It was gloomy here, with great poplar and willow 
hedges on either hand; but soon she was out in the 
moonlight again, and now on the rutted pass that runs 
straight through the heather for Thrasna river and the 
Bilboa hills. Along this she went, going swiftly with 
eyes looking straight before her; presently turned from 


THE EEAPEES 


171 


the turf-banks, struck through a potato-patch and came 
to the narrow plank that led into the wheat-field. 

Timidly, her arms balancing up and down and eyes 
bent on her halting feet, Judy crossed the plank; hur- 
ried past the stooks over the stubble and came to the 
patch of wheat that stood on the end of her first land. 
A goodly patch it was, offering maybe a matter of three 
hours^ work, and showing to a straw how much, through 
a twelve hours’ day, Anne Daly was a better reaper than 
Judy Brady; a goodly patch from which, some four 
hours agone, Judy had turned for home and supper and 
bed, and to which she had now come back for a while of 
diversion under the moon. 

Just a minute she stood looking at the long row of 
stooks on her left, at the shorter row behind, at the 
plot of wheat in front; just a glance she threw at the 
moon, the hills, the shining walls of Emo above in the 
trees, just a moment stood mumbling a prayer; then, 
quickly, fiung down her shawl, pulled her sickle from a 
stook, stooped and set to work. 

It was the first time that Judy had worked by moon- 
light, and she found the task not easy. The light was 
wonderfully soft and bright; but it seemed rather to lie 
on things — on her hands, the wheat, the sickle-blade — 
rather to lie on these and embellish them than to make 
them stand forth naked and clear as in the broad shine 
of the sun. It was like working by candle light, Judy 
thought; there was about it an uncertainty, a vague- 
ness, a mysterious glamour, one might call it, which puz- 
zled her and gave an odd sensation of being not 
quite herself, of being outside herself and groping un- 


172 


IRISH PASTORALS 


cannily in a world of dreams. She was afraid to cut 
boldly; more than once she struck clay, or left stubble 
inches too long; now she filled her hook to overflowing, 
and now gathered but a straw into her hand. Then the 
shadows troubled her greatly. She seemed always to 
be working in her own light, just as though she were at 
home in the kitchen, she thought, with her back to the 
candle. And they were so black too, were these shad- 
ows — of the wheat, her arms, herself — and mocked her 
movements so solemnly and dogged her steps so grimly; 
ah, sure, thought Judy, plodding on heroically in spite of 
herself, what with the light and the dark it was woeful 
entirely. 

But more than all this did the unearthly loneliness 
trouble her. It was all so quiet, so big and empty, so 
bright and strange. Not even a breath of wind was 
there, not a stir; from herself away up to the big sky, 
and away all round everywhere, was just one great well 
of silence and strangeness, with only her one self awake 
and striving in it and only the creatures of dogs here 
and there to keep her company. Ah, if it hadn’t been 
for the dogs, thought Judy, if it hadn’t been for the 
noise of them she must have snatched her shawl long 
ago and run. If only someone would shout somewhere, 
or sing; if only a cart would go clanking along the road, 
or a cot go splashing down the river; if she could only 
see a light somewhere, or could think that a friend was 
near her — things would then be not so bad. But there 
was no one, nothing; nothing but her one self bending 
there in the big empty world. She dared not look up, 
or round about her. She dared hardly think. The 


THE EEAPEES 


173 


sound of her heart beating in her ear was, at times, 
like the call of terror. It was only by biting her lip 
hard and long that, sometimes, she kept from shrieking; 
it was only by keeping sternly to her task, not halting for 
a breath, not wavering a yard, that she fought back igno- 
minious panic. There were times, odd moments and 
minutes, when it needed but a cloud to darken the moon, 
or so much as a mouse to stir in the wheat, to send her 
shivering to her knees, jabbering to the saints with her 
face in her hands. 

But nothing happened, nothing. Steadily, serenely 
the moon held her course across the heavens; far and 
wide the land lay sleeping in the soft magic of her shine; 
and there, through all the wonder of the night, went 
plodding that weird little figure of a Judy, groping 
and stumbling, muttering and praying, cowering in 
sight of such beauty and splendour from she knew not 
what. 

She had been at work maybe an hour, when sud- 
denly it was borne in upon her that something was 
coming. At once she crouched, trembling and stricken; 
presently found courage to rise a little and timorously 
to look around her. There was no one on the stubble, 
nothing on the hills before her; but coming slowly 
across the field on her left was the figure of a man. 

A man? Or was it a ghost? Again Judy crouched, 
heart in her throat and lips parched; crouched low and, 
as if fascinated, watched the figure come nearer, make 
the gap at head of the field and turn along the land to- 
wards her. Who was it? In God’s name, what was going 
to happen? Who — who .... And with that, from 


174 


lEISH PASTOKALS 


behind a stock, stepped the battered figure of Mike her 
husband. 

Ah, the blessed relief. Like heaven itself was that 
sight of his face. But what had brought him? How 
did he know? Judy rose; and seeing her, Mike halted, 
head forward and his chin in his hand. 

Aw, you’re there,” said he. ‘^That’s you, is it? 
Sure I was thinkin’ so.” Slowly he came forward; 
halted again. Tell me, Judy Brady — what, in glory’s 
name, brings ye here? What are ye doin’?” Mike 
stopped and looked at the scattered sheaves, then at the 
narrow plot of wheat, then at the hook in Judy’s hand. 

Why — why, it’s mad ye are. Reapin’ be moonlight 
in the dead o’ night — reapin’ here be yourself! Why, 
it’s mad ye are,” said. Mike again, and stepping close 
to Judy took her by the shoulder. Here, come away 
home to your bed,” he said roughly; come away 
wi’ ye.” 

Now, ordinarily, Judy was the most docile of wives 
and timorous of women ; but the events of that day had 
roused something within her, some long repressed spirit 
of boldness, and had lifted her out of herself. So that 
now when Mike took her by the shoulder, she looked 
him boldly in the face and answered almost defiantly. 

Pll not,” she said; not a foot. I can do as I like, 
I suppose? An’ what brings you here, may I ax?” 
questioned Judy, with a quick turning of the tables. 

Can’t a woman come out for an hour without bein’ fol- 
lowed like a child ? Suppose I am reapin’ be moonlight, 
what’s that to anyone but meself ? ” 

Never before had Judy spoken to Mike in such fash- 


THE EEAPEKS 


175 


ion. He was taken aback; forgot to assert himself. 
He dropped his head, rubbed his eyes; stood looking at 
his feet and wondering if he were asleep or awake. 

Em not goin’ home ; not a foot till I’m ready to go. 

I’ll stay to mornin’ if I like Where’s the chil- 

der? ” asked Judy, of a sudden. Still Mike stood won- 
dering at the run of things. Where’s the childer, I 
ask ye? ” cried Judy again. Where are they? ” 

Mike looked towards Rhamus hill. They’re yon- 
der,” said he, with a nod, yonder at home.” 

At home? Yonder be themselves? Ah, the cra- 
tures! They’ll be lost, they’ll be — . Suppose the 
house goes afire? Suppose someone comes an’ kills 
them? .... Ah, I’ll go home,” cried Judy, making for 
her shawl; I’ll go home.” 

J ust this was what Mike wanted her to do ; but man- 
like he had to say so. That’s right,” said he; and with 
the word, J udy stopped and turned. 

No, I’ll not,” she said; not a foot. It’s yourself 
that’ll go, Mike Brady. Away wi’ ye, I tell ye. Don’t 
waste one minute, I say. Suppose the goat got at them, 
or the pig . . . .” 

Mike had almost found himself. He snorted. 

Ah, quit your foolery, Judy, for the Lord’s sake. 
Have wit. Didn’t I latch the door after me? Isn’t the 
fire raked? What’d ail them this night more’n another? 
. . . . Are ye cornin’ home wi’ me? ” asked Mike again. 

Are ye, I say? I’ll not go without ye, not a step. Not 
a wink o’ sleep could I get after I heard ye let fall the 
latch an’ missed ye from the bed . . . .” 

Ye heard me? ” said Judy. Ye heard the latch? 


176 


lEISH PASTOKALS 


But — what sent ye after me? How did ye know Hwas 
here I was? ’’ 

Ahj I dunno/’ came back, with a yawn; ’twas 
chance. I lay there wonderin’ an’ wonderin’, an’ do 
what I would not an eye could I close. Says I to meself : 
Who’s sick? Who’s called for her? What woman’s 
expectin’ ? An’ then thinks I of what ye were tellin’ me 

at supper-time about Anne an’ you Are ye 

cornin’ home, I say? ” asked Mike irritably, as if weary 
of all this explanation, and over the point of his shoul- 
der looked at his wife. 

Naw; I’m not — not till that’s finished.” With her 
hook Judy pointed at the plot of wheat. When that’s 
done I’ll go — an’ no sooner.” 

Mike stood rubbing his chin and looking sideways at 
Judy. He was beginning to understand her. Just a 
glimmer he had of the play of her humour. 

I know,” he said at last. I see.” He looked at the 
wheat-patch. ^Ht’ll take ye mebbe two hours yet?” 
Judy turned from him without answering. When it’s 
done,” Mike kept on, you’ll be level with Anne? ” 

That’s so.” 

I see. How I see.” Mike smiled knowingly. An’ 
what better’ll ye be then nor ye are now, I’m wonderin’ ? 
Eh?” said Mike, cocking his wise head. Judy kept 
silent. Ah, woman dear, come home wi’ ye an’ quit 
your foolishness. What’ll people say when they hear o’ 
ye? What’ll Anne do but laugh when she sees what 
you’ve been at? ” 

^^Will she?” Judy’s smile was grim. Ah, will 
she, indeed! ” 


THE EEAPEKS 


177 


Ay, will she. An’ what better’ll yourself be in the 
end for all your slavery? Wait.” Stepping aside, Mike 
ran his eye from head to foot over Judy’s land. Why 
it’s foolery,” he said, coming back; fair foolery. 
You’ll not be two shillin’s richer for it all. Not two 
shillin’s, I say. All that slavery for wages like that,” 
cried Mike, and shot out an arm and let his eyes flash 
in the moonlight. Why it’s shameful; it’s a scandal. 
Two shillin’s — two shillin’s ! ” 

Then said Judy: 

Ah, whisht. Ye know nothin’. It’s not the money. 
It’s — Ah, whisht,” said Judy, walking to her patch; 
ye know nothin’.” 

An’ you’re not cornin’?” asked Mike. You’ll 
still be keepin’ on? ” 

I’m goin’ to flnish.” And scrunch went Judy’s 
hook through the yellow wheat. 

Mike turned away, in wonderment and disgust. 
The foolishness of women, he thought, and looked at 
the moon. All for two shillings? Two shillings! It 
was shameful. 

Ah, the foolishness o’ women, the contrariness o’ 
them! They were unknowable, untrustable, as full 
o’ whims and notions as a whin was full o’ thorns. 
You said this and they did that, you said t’other 
and they answered this. They were all the same, 
as like as sheep in a field — Judy no better than 
the rest, the rest as bad as Judy. See her there moilin’ 
in the moonshine, breaking her back for sake of a notion. 
Think of himself too, moiderin’ there like a fool in the 
middle of the night, missing his sleep and his rest, get- 


178 


IRISH PASTORALS 


ting as hungry as a trooper, feeling as limp as a rope. 
Sure it was shameful. And all because o’ women and 
their whims. Ach! .... Should he go home? No; 
sorrow a foot. What was the good if he couldn’t sleep? 
No; he’d wait for herself, thought Mike; then pulled 
out his pipe, sat down on a sheaf and with his eyes steady 
on the hedge before him began to smoke. Not a thought 
had he, or an eye, for the matchless beauty of the night. 
Not a thought had he — except one maybe of mingled 
wonder and disgust — for his wife toiling there behind 
him, not a thought of sympathy or of admiration. She 
was a fool, he said; an unknowable fool. He would 
have stared at you (and Judy no less, be it said), had 
you hinted that sleep might come the sooner did he seek 
Anne’s hook and reap a stook or two. Stolidly he sat 
on his sheaf, blinking at the hedge; presently rose, 
yawned heavily and stretched himself; then pulled some 
sheaves together lay down upon them and with his face 
to the stars went to sleep. 

But Judy wrought on. The night had no terrors for 
her now, now that Mike had come. She felt brave and 
strong; the shadows and the loneliness and the strange 
light troubled her no longer; twice as fast she could 
work and twice as surely, with Mike lying there in the 
moonlight. Supposing the children were safe, she felt 
gladder than the world, to see his face. Ah, the relief 
his coming had brought, the pleasure it was to see him 
lying there on the sheaves. She hoped his sleep was 
sound; hoped the damp might not find his bones ; hoped 
he might rise fit and well for work in the morning 

Morning? It was m.orning now. Ay, surely it was; 


THE KEAPEKS 


179 


for there were the cocks crowing above in Emo. Twelve 
o’clock? Lord sees! Never before had she had such 
an experience. But what did it matter, thought Judy; 
what did it all matter, now that Mike had come. 
Another hour or so and she would be finished; just a 
stook or two more and she would be level with Anne. 
Level with Anne? Ah, but that would be great! Think 
of Anne’s look in the morning; think of the joy of see- 
ing her face, of hearing her surprise. Who’d crow 
then? Who’d have the laugh then? thought Judy, and 
smiling to herself as she threw a look over her shoulder 
at Mike, went steadily on. 

Finished at last; every grain cut, every sheaf tied, 
the last stook trim and tight. It was good, thought 
Judy, and standing back, hands on hips, admiringly ran 
her eyes over the long row of stooks; it was very good. 
Now who’d boast? Who’d laugh? Now Anne was an- 
swered. Lord, to see her face in the morning, to hear 
her remarks, to see the glum look of her all day long! 
And not a word of explanation would Judy give; oh, 
not one. Quite calmly and unconcernedly she would 
take her hook, bend back and, just as if nothing had hap- 
pened, .start fair on a new land 

Start fair? A new land? Ah, yes. But what about 
afterwards — the long day, the weary striving, the old 
heart-break, the same toil and dread maybe through half 
the night; what about all that? thought Judy and stood 
looking at the stooks with joyless eyes. ’Twould be bit- 
ter; she’d never be able to bear it; she’d have to make 
friends with Anne after all. Friends? No, no, thought 
Judy; then quick was taken with a notion. 


180 


IKISH PASTOEALS 


Suppose she worked on for another hour, just to get 
a start of Anne? Her triumph would then be the com- 
pleter, her work for the day made easier. She felt not 
very tired, or hungry; a couple of hours’ sleep was all 
she needed; the children were surely safe; Mike was 
sound and fast: there was nothing to hinder her, noth- 
ing. And to think of Anne’s face! She saw it now, 
there before her, all big and red and angry .... Yes, 
she’d do it; and the next minute Judy was reaping again, 
as if for dear life, on the next land. 

More than an hour she wrought; then, sleep and 
hunger and weariness at length mastering her, flung 
down her hook, left the sheaves lying broadcast on the 
stubble, threw her shawl over her head, and crossed to 
Mike. 

‘‘ Wake up.” Hard and long she shook him. Wake 
up, I tell ye. I’m done. I’m goin’ home. Wake up, 
I tell ye.” 

All right,” snapped Mike; it’s all right, I say. 
Leave me alone, Judy. Dang it, I am awake. Can’t 
ye see I am?” Mike sat upright; rubbed his eyes; 
blinked a while ; looked at his boots, then right and left 
at the stubble; then raised his eyes and saw Judy stand- 
ing beside him with the big moon shining over her head. 

Grod above,” said he, twisting round on his knees ; 

is this where I am still? ” Stiffly and slowly he rose, 
rubbed his eyes again and stretched wearily; then, with 
a growl and a shiver, thrust hands in pockets and by way 
of the turf-banks and the hills set off homeward with 
Judy at his heels. And as they went, a miserable couple 
trudging below the stars over the moonlit fields, their 


THE EEAPEES 


181 


own shuffling steps in the rushes and the grass made the 
only sounds that broke the great quiet of the night. 
Dead — dead — dead as the grave lay all the world in the 
gleam of the silver moon. Aw, but it’s cowld/’ 
shivered Mike; God’s truth, but it’s cowld! Will we 
niver get home?” said he, plodding along three parts 
asleep. Will we niver — niver — niver get home? ” 
Ah, to be sure we will,” said Judy at last; to be 
sure we will. Man alive, aren’t we at the dure.” 

It was between tw.o and three o’clock, that morning 
of the new September day, when Judy got to bed; by 
six she was up again and busy preparing breakfast, by 
seven had started Mike for work, had eaten her Indian 
meal porridge and tea and bread and was hurrying once 
more for the wheat field. If I can only be there be- 
fore her,” she panted; if I only can till I see her face. 
I must be before her — I must.” 

Breathlessly she sped over the hill, across the bog, up 
the stubble; and there at top of the field, back to a 
stook and her eyes on the scattered sheaves, sat Anne 
Daly. 

J udy stopped, hand on heart, and her face haggard. 

Ah, I’m late,” she gasped; I didn’t see her 

Still, what odds anyway? Sure — sure it’s all the same.” 
A moment she wavered, standing there among the 
stooks, lips tight and her eyes hard on the crown of 
Anne’s sunbonnet; then set her face, stepped out 
bravely, and coming to the new land found her hook and 
prepared for work. Sure it’s all the same,” she said, 
and with her back to Anne stood rolling up her sleeves ; 
if I didn’t see her, sure I can guess how she looked. 


182 


IKISH PASTOEALS 


Awj it’s a sore day for her, so it is; a sore day. Think 
of her sittin’ there glowerin’ at me. Dear Lord, but 
it’s great! What’ll she say? I wonder; what’ll she do? 
Dear Lord, but it’s great! ” said Judy, and spat on her 
hand, and twirled her hook, and stooped to cut the first 
band. 

It was just then that Anne Daly rose and spoke. 

Aisy,” said she; aisy wi’ ye for one minute, Mrs. 
Brady, ma’am. Sure I’m mortial obliged for all you’ve 
done for me, but I’ll not be troublin’ ye to do any more.” 

Still stooping, Judy looked round at Anne; but said 
nothing. 

^^Aw, ye needn’t be starin’ at me,” Anne went on, in 
that suave and masterful way she had — a way which 
seemed, that morning, the very voice of her strength 
and freshness; sure it’s not meself’s to blame at all. 
If so be people are neighbourly enough to come doin’ 
me work for me, I’in not the one to grumble. Aw, no. 
That’s not the kind of me at all.” 

J udy stood upright. I’m bad at riddles, Mrs. Daly,” 

said she, and steadily met Anne’s eye. 

^^Are ye, then? ” came back. Kiddies, ye say. 
Troth, an’ it’s yourself’s the riddle this mornin’, Mrs. 
Brady, dear; for if ye can’t see that you’re standin’ on 
the third land an’ grippin’ a handful o’ wheat that be 
right belongs to me, then you’re a bigger fool than ye 
look.” 

Haggard to the lips and scarcely breathing, Judy 
stood looking before her. The third land? Anne’s 
land! This was what she had done? This was the out- 
come of all her striving. Aw, my God, but it’s sore ! ” 


THE KEAPEKS 


183 


thought Judy; then, the tears big in her eyes and her 
face quivering piteously, turned and plodded through the 
sheaves — Anne’s sheaves reaped by herself that morning 
— to the top of the fourth land. But Anne followed 
and caught her arm. 

^^Judy,” said she; I say, Judy. Listen to me, 
woman. Och, quit your foolery. Come back, I say. 
Sure I wouldn’t be takin’ your work from ye for the 
world. Come back, I say. An’ listen to me. I’m sorry 
for what happened yisterday; sure, I meant nothin’ at 
all Come back wi’ me, Judy; come back.” 

And Judy went. 


THE DIGGERS 





















I 


1 TELL ye what it is, Mike — this is a mortial curi- 
ous kind of a world/^ 

''Ay?’' 

" It’s powerful curious — powerful. The more I think 
of it the powerfuller it is.” 

"Yis?” 

" There’s things in it that’s past all knowin’; there’s 
things in it that bangs the divil; there’s things .... 
Och, but what’s the good o’ talkin’? What’s the good? ” 
" Well, sorrow a bit.” 

" Not one bit. Ye may talk an’ talk till your tongue 
is stiff, an’ divil a thing in the wide world’s a straw the 
better or a straw the worse. An’ ye may talk your best, 
an’ ye may do your best, an’ ye may be the wisest man 
that iver winked an eye; an’ for all your cliverness, if 
the spuds are goin’ to rot they’ll rot in spite o’ ye. They 
will so — they’ll rot in spite o’ ye.” 

"Aw, troth will they; sure they will.” 

"Ah, to be sure; why, to be sure. It’s the will o’ 
God does it; iverything comes just’ as it’s sent. There’s 
no good in strivin’ agen things at all — not a bit. Ye 
may spray an’ spray till the praties look as if they’d been 
whitewashed, an’ if it’s sent the blight’ll come as sure 
as the sun’ll set. Nothin’ll stop it — nothin’ in the world. 
It’s the will o’ God. For all that . . . .” 

James Daly straightened himself in the furrow, 
187 


188 


IRISH PASTORALS 


looked slowly and thoughtfully here and there about 
him, threw a glance over his shoulder at the falling sun ; 
then rested both hands on his spade-head, leant forward 
upon them and stood eyeing the scanty dribble of pota- 
toes that lay on the ridge before him. His face wore a 
solemn expression, his eyes were grave; he had the air 
of one standing knee deep and doubtful in the troublous 
waters of thought. Just a little not himself, beyond 
himself, he stood there among the withered potato 
stalks, one foot on the ridge, the other in the furrow, his 
back bent and head thrust forward. For a minute his 
mind went groping — ^peering dimly, you might say, as 
through that creeping mist of autumn — and he stood 
looking at things and not seeing them, living for once 
without knowing it, rapt for a minute out of this mor- 
tal curious kind of a world. Then he sighed; came to 
himself and drew back from his spade; glanced at Mike 
and went on digging. Ay,’’ he said, with a nod and a 
smile, aw, just so”; and again, Aw, yis, indeed”; 
and once more, Aw, bedad, ay ... . Why, to be 
sure.” 

Mike Brady ceased working and across a shoulder 
fixed J ames Daly with his black little eyes. Arrah, 
what the divil’s come to ye all of a suddint,” said he, in 
his thin vicious way, chin pushed out and his lips scarcely 
moving, wi’ your mumblin’ an’ mutterin’ to yourself? 
Out wi’ it — if you’ve anythin’ to say, out wi’ it like a 
man.” 

James tossed two rotten potatoes and one only half 
rotten from his spade, broke a clod and spread the ridge 
level, spat on his hands and stepped back past a kale 


THE DIGGEKS 


189 


head along the furrow. ^^Ach, ’twas nothinV’ he said, 
without looking up. I was only wonderin’ to me- 
self.” 

Wonderin’? An’ what about? Out wi’ it, man; 
out wi’ it. Sure it’s new, to ye this modesty, in troth.” 
Obdurately Mike stood twisted in his furrow, his eyes 
keen on the battered brim of James’ brown hat. If 
it’s nothin’ sure it’s all the easier said,” he went on; 
then, James still keeping silence, Wid it be about the 
praties rottin’ ye were wonderin’ ? ” said he. 

It was,” answered James; it was so. It’s the will 
o’ God, says I, that sends us the blight, an’ no man can 
stop it. An’ then the thought strikes me: Isn’t it a 
powerful strange way o’ doin’ things to — to — ” James 
hesitated ; stopped. 

Gwan,” said Mike, much as a tinker urges his 
donkey. 

Isn’t it a powerful curious way o’ managin’ the 
world, thinks I” — steadily James kept digging as he 
spoke — to let men work the way they do, breakin’ up 
the ground an’ manurin’ it, an’ puttin’ in the seed, an’ 
shovellin’ an’ weedin’; an’ then to let the praties grow 
an’ grow an’ grow — an’ then, just when you’d wink, to 
send the blight an’ the rot an’ destroy the whole ging- 
bang o’ them. Sure it’s curious — be the Lord, but it’s 
powerful curious! ” James paused a minute; silently 
Mike turned to his ridge; again spoke James. I won- 
der now,” said he, if so be the Lord’s will’d have any- 
thin’ to do wi’ it at all? ” 

Mike twisted round his head. What’s that? ” said 
he sharply. . 


190 


lEISH PASTOEALS 


Pm just wonderinV’ drawled James, if so be it’s 
the Lord’s will sends blight into the world at all.” 

AVhy, to be sure it is,” cried Mike. Man alive, 
to be sure.” 

Then, all I can say is,” continued James, that 
there must be powerful little bad in the world for the 
divil to do — powerful little, say I.” 

This was startling language. Not often before had 
Mike Brady heard the like; never in his life heard it 
from James Daly. He turned quickly, crouching in 
his furrow and peering into James’ face. Why, 
heavenly hour, James Daly,” said he, in a plaintive 
wail of reproof. Man alive, what’s come to ye? 
Heavenly hour ” 

James straightened himself; looked at the hills and 
rubbed his chin; then tilted back his hat and kicked 
viciously at the potato stalks in his furrow. Ah, 
whisht wi’your bleather,” said he, and scorned Mike with 
voice and eye; you an’ your Heavenly hour! Quit wi’ 
ye. Is sayin’ what I did half as bad as doin’ all that? ” 
and James swept an arm towards the blackened ridge- 
tops. Couldn’t I say twice as bad if I spoke all that’s 
in me mind — ay, an’ yourself too, standin’ there gawkin’ 
at me? Phat! An’ isn’t it enough — isn’t it twice 
enough — to make a man curse for iver when it’s God’s 
will for him to stand here gropin’ for rotten praties the 
livelong day? Look at them,” cried James pushing 
forth an arm; look at what’s sent to stand between us 
an’ hunger all the winter through. Curse? Be ja- 
bers, but it’s enough to drive a man to the madhouse! 
Look at them — look at them. Half o’ them rotten an’ 


THE DIGGEKS 


191 


th’ other half tainted, an’ as many to the stalk as’d 
feed a robin. Aw, be the holy, it’s ojus. I can’t 
stand it. The stink o’ them sickens me. What’s the 
good o’ diggin’ them?” James raised his spade and 
drove it deep and viciously into the soft black loam. 

What’s the good o’ workin’ at all? What’s the divil’s 
good? ” 

Mike was standing turned towards James, elbow on 
spade-head and cheek in hand; now he looked round 
upon the fields, considered a minute and answered: 

Well, the divil a much then.” 

^^Much? There’s none,” answered James, striding 
out upon his ridge and facing Mike again. We’re 
only wastin’ our time. Here’s four o’clock in the day, 
an’ in the last hour I’ve dug as much as we’d ate at 
home in once. D’ye call that imployment for a grown 
man? D’ye imagine that’s what we’re here in the 
world to do? Hokin’ for rotten praties wi’ a spade — 
slavin’ an hour for the makin’s of a supper — wearin’ all 
the flesh off our bones to getwhat’ll go before Christmas. 
D’ye call that imployment, I ax ye? D’ye now? ” said 
James Daly and spread an eloquent hand. 

Well — ” Mike looked at his boots, pursed his lips, 
shook his head; slowly raised his eyes. Would ye 
have us not dig them at all? ” he asked, with a sly cock 
of the head. Sure what’ll last us till Christmas is 
better than nothin’, so it is. An’ what worse are we off 
nor . . . .” 

James turned away, waving a hand at Mike and dole- 
fully shaking his head. Arrah whisht wi’ ye,” he 
said. Sure it’s foolery you’re talkin’ .... To be 


192 


IRISH PASTORALS 


sure the praties must be dug; but what I was askin’ ye 
is this: D’ye call this imployment for grown men? 
D’ye? ” 

Mike stood puzzled. He was not used to such talk; 
seldom before had he known James Daly ask such ques- 
tions, never seen him with that strange look on his face, 
that ugly glare in his eyes. He began groping for his 
pipe. Aw, bedad, I dunno,” he answered. I dun- 
no.” 

!Raw, ye don’t — to be sure ye don’t.” Suddenly 
James wheeled about, eyes and face ablaze. But I do. 
I know, Mike Brady. An’ it’s meself that’s tellin’ ye 
that it’s no men we are at all. Ye hear that? It’s not 
men we are at all — but danged fools an’ slaves. I tell 
ye it’s not grubbin’ for rotten praties that men out in 
the world spend their time. Phat! We’re fools, I tell 
ye; we’re slaves, sir; we’re ignerant; we know no more 
o’ the world an’ what’s goin’ on in it than — than — ” 
right and left James sought among the ridges for a sim- 
ile — than the hat on your head there. We’re only 
just livin’ like the cows beyont on the hill. D’ye think 
India meal stirabout an’ rotten praties is the feedin’ men 
get out yonder?” asked James, and bending towards 
Mike indicated the great outer world of wealth and 
plenty with a thumb turned backward across his shoul- 
der. ‘‘ D’ye imagine they^d be content wi’ fourteen- 
pence a day in the summer, an’ a shillin’ in the winter, 
an’ nothin’ when it’s wet, an’ the milk of a cow between 
seven of them an’ what rotten praties’d grow on half an 
acre o’ ground? ^D’ye think they live in mud-walls out 
yonder? D’ye think they work fourteen hours a day. 


THE DIGGEKS 


193 


an’ all Saturday, an’ a while on Sunday, out beyont? 
Ach, don’t be thinkin’ it! ” Janies turned from Mike, 
raising hands and voice in a protest of pitying scorn. 

Man alive, ye might just as well be dead for all ye 
know of things. You’re ignerant I tell ye,” said James, 
and voiced his knowledge of Mike’s limitations with a 
contempt that had been masterly had Mike been only 
less utterly indifferent; you’re behind the times; 
you’re only a babby in short clothes. If ye only knew 

how to read a paper you’d know better Listen 

to me.” Again James bent towards Mike, fixing him 
with glittering eyes and wagging forefinger. D’ye 
know what I seen last night in a paper that Master Jem 
lent me the loan of? I seen that workin’ men in Eng- 
land get more’n thirty shillin’s a week — ye hear that? 
An’ I seen that they work only eight hours a day, an’ 
only half a day on Saturdays, an’ none at all on Sundays 
— ye hear that? An’ listen to me,” cried James again, 
every fibre of him summoning Mike to full attention, 

they’re not content yit — they’re not satisfied even 
now — they’re goin’ to strike work if they don’t get 
more. Ye hear me? Ye hear me!” Gradually 
James had been drawing himself erect, his voice waxing 
shriller and fiercer with every word : now his arms went 
out rigid before him and scornfully he cried: ^^An’ here 
are we — the pair of us — gropin’ wi’ spades from sunrise 
to sunset for as much rotten praties as — as . . . .” 

Speech failed James; emotion stified him. Wrath- 
fully, aflame with indignation and disgust, he turned 
from Mike, let fall his hands and stood facing the sun. 
Its rays came long and feeble out from the glowing 


194 


lEISH PASTOEALS 


west, struggling valiantly with gathering mists, falling 
coldly upon the hill crests, and the dim patches of fields, 
and the long stretch of blackened potato-land running 
stricken through Emo valley; falling upon James Daly 
also, standing there in his tatters on a trampled ridge 
wrathfully chewing his morsel of thought. Slaves .... 
fools .... ignorance .... injustice: the words, or 
the thoughts born of them, swirled wildly in his brain; 
and his face, for once, showed black and discontented 
in the sunlight, and his eyes were ugly to see. Why, he 
asked of himself — and asked it bitterly, complainingly, 
even as never before in his life he had asked it — why had 
God willed such things to be in the world? Why had 
fate condemned him to this life of toil and poverty, of 
hunger and ignorance? Why should others be better 
than he; have stone houses to live in, and easy work, 
and plenty of holidays, and lots of money? Why was it? 
Did God will it all? Or was it the devil? Or was it 
just chance? asked James at last; then, pulled out his 
spade, turned and stepped down into his furrow. It’s 
curious,” said he, with a shake of the head; be the 
Lord above, but it’s a mortial curious kind of a world ! ” 
And Mike answered from his furrow: Ay, it is. 
But for all that even the rotten praties have to be dug. 
.... Whisht. Aw, be the piper, if here isn’t Master 
J em himself cornin’ to us across the bottom. Sure now; 


sure now . . 


THE DIGGEKS 


195 


II 

Along the valley, from Emo hill, a youth came step- 
ping across the ridges, gun on shoulder and dog at heel. 
He was tall, broad-shouldered, lithe; face square and 
well-featured, eyes dark and deep, expression open and 
fearless. He wore brown tweeds, leather leggings, 
heavy boots and a tam-o’-shanter cap. In this pocket 
was a book, in that a newspaper, in another cartridges. 
He looked very strong, youth and height notwith- 
standing; his head was admirably poised, his stride 
long and free: something of a figure he made, that 
afternoon in early October, as he swung across the 
valley from ridge to ridge, the grey haze about him 
and the sun on his face. Only his face was hard and 
set that afternoon, and he met the sun with cheer- 
less eyes. 

Good evenin’, boys.” 

Och, an’ good evenin’ to yourself, Master Jem. 
. . . . Out for a bang at the ducks you’ll be? ” 

Ay.” Jem sat down on a ridge, face towards Thrasna 
river and back to the sun, laid his gun across his knees 
and called Tim to the furrow at his feet. Down, sir,” 
he said; then took the dog’s head between his hands and 
bent towards the faithful brown eyes. Poor old man,” 
crooned the lad. There’s a boy — there’s a man.” He 
patted the close-curled neck and fondled the long soft 
ears; stooped lower and took a lick upon his cheek. 

Poor old man,” said Jem; poor old boy ”; then sat 
upright and looked slowly along the straggling line of 


196 


lEISH PASTOKALS 


potatoes that lay on the ridge before him. That’s a 
fat crop, J ames/’ said he with a nod. 

Ay, faith.” James laughed soberly and cast a sar- 
donic eye upon the crop. He had found something of 
his old placid self again. ^^Ay faith,” said he; sure 
we were sayin’ that ourselves. They’re poor; ay; ojus 
poor.” 

But sure they might be worse,” ventured Mike the 
lean and woebegone. 

Worse? Worse! Then God help the pigs of Ire- 
land.” The men laughed; Jem put down his gun and 
rose. Here,” said he, give us your spade, Mike, an’ 
fall to the gatherin’. It’s too early for the ducks, an’ 
I must be doin’ somethin’ ; an’ it’ll be dusk before long. 
Away with ye now,” said Jem; then took his place in 
Mike’s furrow, spat on his hands and bent to the dig- 
ging. 

Soberly and almost silently work went on; slowly the 
sun fell towards the cloud-banks that lay out beyond 
the mountain; thicker and darker crept the mists along 
the valley, filling it waist deep — like a river of smoke — 
from edge to edge. Distant sounds of life and work 
dropped down from the hills; now and then a swift 
whizz of wings went high through the gathering dusk; 
or a spade met a stone, or a kale-stalk broke with a snap, 
or Tim yawned beside the gun, or a word went from 
one to another among the diggers. Por Irishmen, in- 
deed, the three were strangely silent. The slow crawl 
of the mist, you might think, had chilled them to moody 
reserve. They had the air of men who cogitate, work- 
ing mechanically the while. Up and down the ridges 


THE DIGGERS 


197 


went Mike, gathering the crop into his basket, empty- 
ing his basket at the sorting-place; looking furtively and 
keenly from time to time up towards the diggers, and 
muttering dark words of knowingness as he stooped. 
Slowly along his furrow went James Daly, patiently 
groping for what he might find, fondly hoping against 
hope that the next stalk might be more fruitful than the 
last; looking often, he also, from the corner of his eye 
at the silent figure in the next furrow, and wondering 
inwardly at the curiousness of things. Something’s 
wrong,” said James to himself; ^^something’s surely 
come to him ”; but what that something was he might 
no more than wonder at. For James knew wiser than 
to. drop even a hint; nor did Jem show sign of giving 
any clue to himself. He never looked up, nor rested 
for a breath. His teeth were clenched, his jaw set de- 
terminedly. A frown knitted his brow. He wrought 
fiercely, furiously you might say, stabbing at the ground 
and driving his spade to the ears, breaking the clods 
viciously, working like one who wreaks upon the earth 
a passion of energy, or of passion itself. And at last, 
just as the sun fell behind the mountain and dusk came 
with a gallop, he raised the spade and banged it flat upon 
the ground; then stepped upon the ridge. 

It’s the last time,” he shouted, his voice hoarse and 
passionate, a clenched hand upraised and his face blanch- 
ing; it’s the last time. I’ll never handle a spade again 
for him or his. By God, I won’t ! I’ll stand it no more. 
I’ll go — I’ll go — I’ll go. I’d rather ’list. I’d rather 
break stones. I’d sooner go to the devil than stay an’ be 
treated like a dog. I’d — Oh, by God, I’ll end it! ” 


198 


lEISH PASTOEALS 


Quivering from head to heel, Jem stood fronting the 
faded splendour of the west, hands by his side and his 
shoulders squared. At his feet stood Tim the dog, his 
eyes hungry for a word. Down along the ridge, half- 
stooped over his basket, hands on knees and mouth 
agape, stood Mike, motionless among the furrows as 
any scarecrow. Even James Daly had the look of one 
bemused. 

Pm sick to the heart of it all. A dog wouldn’t 
stand it. Nothin’ but wranglin’ an’ squabblin’, an’ 
shoutin’ an’ fightin’, from mornin’ to night. If I broke 
me heart I couldn’t please him. The worst word on 
his tongue he keeps for me. If I was a stranger he 
daren’t — he daren’t; but his own son he can bully as 
he likes. Can he? Can he, by the Lord! Oh, I’ll 
show him. I’ll go — I’ll go — I’ll go. This day ends 
it for evermore.” 

Again J em paused. Tim crouched at his feet, wait- 
ing and wondering. Mike had come nearer; James 
stood leaning on his spade, looking soberly on the 
ground. Ach, no. Master Jem,” said James. Man 
alive, no. Sure ye wouldn’t do that.” 

Wouldn’t I, then.” Jem turned, with a mocking 
sound of laughter. You’ll see, James Daly; you’ll 
just see. Why shouldn’t I go? D’ye think I’m wanted 
here? Not me — not me! All that’s wanted of me 
these parts is just as much work as can be got out o’ 
me. I’m no more than an ass for anyone to kick at. 

. . . . Everyone’s against me. There’s not one in all 
Emo cares twopence for me — not one but the dog there 
at me feet . . . .” 


THE DIGGEES 


199 


Ach, man alive, Master Jem,’’ protested James 
Daly; man alive, quit your talk. Sure it’s romancin’ 
ye are.” 

It’s true, I tell ye.” Jem took a step along tke 
ridge, with Tim the dog jumping for his hand. Not 
one cares a bawbee about me. If I give me opinion of 
a thing I’m laughed at. If I lay me hand to a thing I 
do it wrong. I’m only in the way. I’m only a fool. 
I’m lazy an’ a good-for-nothin’ .... No one under- 
stands me,” cried Jem, his face to the sun, his voice 
piteous with that eternal plaint of youth; no one un- 
derstands me — an’ no one cares.” 

Ah, but sure. Master Jem,” said James Daly again, 
they do care. Man alive, they do. I know it. Man, 
I’ve heard the Master praisin’ ye meself. Sure it’s all 
from the outside, it’s only talk . . . .” 

^^Talk!” Jem’s arms flew out and his voice rose 
high. Talk, ye say? Ah, that’s all ye know about it, 

J ames Daly I wish you’d heard the talk I heard 

this very day. My dinner nearly choked me to hear it. 
It was all I could do to keep from goin’ for the gun in 
the corner. He made me blood boil — he cut me to the 
very heart — he said things to me that a tinker wouldn’t 
stand. An’ because I listened to it all he must 
start on me again out in the yard. Ah, be the king, 
I couldn’t stand it. I was ragin’. I could feel every 

muscle leapin’ in me. I — I ” 

Jem paused for breath; then flushed, turned towards 
the mountain, and stood looking at Tim. Something 
within him, something that rose like a sob, had stopped 
speech with a gasp; stopped it just as it was lashing him 


200 


IKISH PASTOEALS 


headlong from the depths of indiscretion. Another 
word and he had told all, given the pitiable story of his 
foolishness and anger to the greedy ears of the world; 
had shamed both himself and his father in open day, 
given words to a scene which even now he flushed to 
recall. Not that he felt regret for the step he had 
taken, nor remorse for the heartlessness and ingratitude 
of his doings. Time for these w^as not yet. Neither 
was passion dying within him nor the mad flame of re- 
bellion. Just as angry and relentless, just as deter- 
mined in will and heart, he stood now among the fur- 
rows as an hour ago he had stood shouting deflance 
and threats above in Emo yard. Still, blood was 
blood, he felt .... and even he owed something 
to a father .... and the word unspoken was not 
the seed of regret .... and he was glad that not 
all his tribulations had gone voiced into the world. 
He stepped along the ridge, took up his gun and came 
back. 

Enough talk, boys,’’ said he, for one night. It’s 
gettin’ late an’ I’m keepin’ ye from your work. Here’s 
another paper for ye, James. Come, Tim, lad.” And 
J em turned face for the willows. 

But James Daly crossed quickly and took him by an 
arm. 

Listen to me. Master J em. Whisht now for just a 
minute. Sure ye won’t be leavin’ us. Master Jem; 
och, sure ye won’t be goin’ an’ leavin’ us! ” James’ 
grip was tight on the lad’s arm, his voice came pleading 
as through tears. Sure you’ll not be goin’ from us? ” 
he said. 


THE DIGGEKS 


201 


Jem turned on the ridge. Fll go surely, James — 
as sure as God’s above me.” 

Aw, now — aw, now.” James dropped his hand, 
sighed, looked away. ^^Aw, now — aw, now! ” 

Out into the world I’ll go, James — out into the 
world.” 

Aw, now. Master J em — aw, now ! ” 

Who’d stay here all his life? Who’d waste himself 
in a place like this? What chance has a man in this 
God-forsaken country? ” Jem- wheeled round upon the 
ridge. Look at your country,” he said, and mock- 
ingly flung out an arm. Look at the place where 
they’d keep me all my life! Nothin’ but hills an’ hedges, 
an’ dirt an’ misery, an’ hunger an’ want — nothin’ but 
the scrapin’s of the world. Phat ! I’m heart-sick of it. 
I’ll go surely. I’ll go surely.” 

What could James answer to all that? What had 
he been saying himself not half an hour agone? 
He looked at his boots. Och, ay,” he said; 
och, ay.” 

An’ listen to me, James Daly.” Jem stepped back 
a little way. ^^An’ listen to me yourself, Mike Brady. 
If the two o’ ye knew what ye ought to know, an’ 
weren’t fools, an’ had as much manhood in ye as Tim 
there, it’s not here you’d stay slavin’ your hearts out all 
your lives, an’ Ailin’ your bellies with rotten potatoes. 
Bead what’s in the paper there an’ learn something for 
yourselves. Men? You’re no men! Work? It’s 
slavery you’re at! An’ look,” cried Jem, pointing at 
Mike’s basket, look at the kind of food the Lord gives 
ye to eat! .... Men? You’re no men,” cried Jem 


202 


lEISH PASTOEALS 


again and turned his face for the willows. All the 
men are out yonder — out yonder.’’ 

And striding like a giant the lad went on across the 
ridges, head back and his eyes looking out into the 
world. 


Ill 

James Daly finished his supper; sat smoking a while 
before the fire: then rose, put on his coat and made for 
the door. 

Where are ye goin’ ? ” asked Anne his wife. 

Across the fields.” 

An’ for what? ” 

Me business.” 

Lord sees! ” Anne gulped down her amazement; 
ran and took James by the arm. You’re not goin’,” 
she said, you’re not goin’ a foot. There’s somethin’ 
ailin’ ye; there’s somethin’ on your mind ” 


There’s nothin’ ailin’ me Ach, quit wi’ ye, 

woman I’m goin’, I tell ye Let me go — 


let me go.” And shaking free of Anne’s grip, James 
kicked over a stool and strode forth. 

Night had gathered dark and threatening. There was 
no moon, the stars were hidden, only a breath of wind 
was abroad; silence and the mists held sway in Emo val- 
ley and upon it lay heavy an ill-savour of blight and rot- 
tenness, a dank breath of decay that came creeping over 
the heather, overflowed upon the pastures, lurked along 
James Daly’s path and filled him with wretchedness. 


THE DIGGEKS 


203 


It made him shiver, made the night seem gloomier and 
the burden of life and thought more irksome; drove 
him at last out among the rushes, and round the oak 
plantation, and up to the old castle that crowns Rhamus 
hill. 

It was fresh there and quick with a noiseless wind; 
heartsome also with clatter from the highway and sounds 
of life from the land of Bilboa : stumbling blindly among 
the scrub James made his way to the battlements, sat 
down upon a stone, lighted his pipe, leant forward with 
arms crossed upon his knees and gave himself to the 
joys of thought. 

It was of the curiousness and onJcnowahlenessoi things, 
the strangeness and mystery of them, that James thought 
in his dim haphazard way; it was of these in relation to 
himself and to Master J em that he thought most of all. 
He felt restless in mind and body. A cloud of gloom 
lay heavy upon him. Wherever he looked he saw signs 
of misery, or of coming misery. His everyday attitude 
of cheerful indifference, of patient resignation, had gone; 
and he sat listless, depressed, self-conscious, seeing every- 
thing at its worst and nothing right. The world was all 
wrong. Heaven was unjust, cruel. The past was a fail- 
ure; the present a misery; the future unthinkable. He 
had been born in slavery and ignorance, had grown up 
with them; was doomed to die in their service. Look at 
the life he led. Think of the hut he lived in. Think of 
the food he had to eat. Men,’’ said Master Jem. 

You’re no men. You’re slaves and fools. . . .” 
Slaves and fools? What else had he himself said 
that very day? .... ^^ If the two o’ ye knew what 


204 


IRISH PASTORALS 


ye ought to know, it’s not here you’d stay slavin’ 
your hearts out.” Not here? Then where? What 
did Master Jem mean? Did he mean that he and 
Mike should go out even now into the big, wide world? 
Or did he mean that they ought to rebel against slavery 
and hunger; do as the men in the newspapers had done? 
What did Master J em mean? And what, thought James 
in a while, did the lad mean about himself? I’ll go — 
I’ll go — I’ll go.” How he had shouted the words, his eyes 
flashing like fire! Where was he going? How was he 
going? Did he mean to go without giving word to the 
father? .... Ah, it was pity of the lad. Not a finer 
boy ever trod God’s earth than Master Jem. He was 
warm and* tender of heart, manly and generous; as 
likeable a lad as you’d find in the world. Sure to see 
him with a dog, fondling and playing with it, was 
enough to make one cry. Only he was lazy, and head- 
strong, and had strange notions that he had learnt in 
school and in books and newspapers. He hated work. 
He wanted to use his brains. Emo was too small for 
him. He wanted to see the world; and the father 
wanted him to stay at home: and so the play went on. 
Ah, it was pity. For where could you match the Mas- 
ter for manhood and cleverness in all Ireland? He had 
the brain of a judge and the heart of a child: only 
he spoke his mind, and laziness and he were bad friends, 
and always he drove his own faster than he drove 
another: and so he and Master Jem couldn’t agree. 
They never had agreed; they never would; and to all 
appearances this day’s play had finished all. I’ll go — 
I’ll go — I’ll go,” shouted the lad, his eyes fiaming 


THE DIGGEES 


205 


like fire. And he was wise, said James Daly to him- 
self, hunching there lonely on his stone; surely he was 
wise. Why should he stay here, here in this God-for- 
saken country? What was here for the kind of him to 
do? Nothing, nothing. Only fools and slaves were 

wanted here Fools and slaves. Oh, by the 

Lord, if only he was young, had only a chance, 
knew what to do and how to do it ! If only he 
could get out — out into the big, wide world. If only 
.... if only pigs could fiy, if only the sky could fall, 
thought James; then, laughing cheerlessly at the fool- 
ishness of himself, left his stone, stumbled out through 
the scrub and took again to the hillside. 

For a while he wandered aimlessly through the 
rushes; then faced towards Emo; then turned and made 
for home; then turned again and set out across Ehamus 
hill for the wilds of Bilboa. Home offered few attrac- 
tions to his mental eye that night. He dreaded Anne and 
her questions; revolted from, the picture that rose be- 
fore him of a smoky cabin lighted by a single rush light. 
Eestlessness had taken possession of him, thought drove 
him like a tyrant. He felt rebellious, reckless. What 
about Anne? Who wanted a supper of potatoes and 
buttermilk? What if he didn’t sleep, didn’t get to work 
in the morning? To glory with work and slavery, 
with misery and thinking! For weeks and weeks 
he had sat at home like a fool: now he was off 
for a spree. So — driven by fate, you might think — 
down Ehamus hill went James Daly; crossed Thrasna 
river; entered Bilboa and came to the house of a friend. 

God save all here,” was his word as the door swung 


206 


IKISH PASTOEALS 


back; and behold round the cheerful hearth a little party 
busy with poteen and cards. 

It was one o’clock when the fun stopped by the hearth; 
it was nearing half past one when James bade the 
last of his friends good-night, took to the Bunn road and 
started for home. He had won ninepence, had made 
free with the poteen, had sung and laughed and cheered: 
steadily he walked and strove for the middle of the 
road, but his brain still reeled with excitement and from 
time to time he skirled fiercely up into the blackness 
of the night. Brim full of courage he walked, and 
cried defiance at an empty world. 

He was nearing Thrasna river, and had just repulsed 
an assault by Farrell’s dog, when right upon the slope 
before him arose a sudden clatter — a slow click-clack 
upon the stones, a stealthy beat of hooves that came 
down between the hedges and killed all swagger in 
James Daly with a single heart-beat. Hot that he was 
afraid. Ho, no. But it was powerful dark and lonely 
and late .... and the road was narrow and ugly 
.... and it might be something divilish, or someone 
who meant harm, or it might be a ghost, or — or .... 
Who the divil was it anyway? Trembling a little and 
not very eager of heart, J ames turned for the ditch and 
stood back among the whitethorns. 

The sound of hooves came nearer, beating and slip- 
ping down the slope; and now a snort was heard, and 
now the stress of anxious breathing, and now, even as 
a dark form loomed out and passed between James and 
the sky, a voice saying, Woh, boy — steady, lad — 
steady Paddy — woh, lad ”; and now, even as the form 


THE DIGGEES 


207 


passed on and down, no less than a cry from James 
himself and a rush along the stones. Master J em/’ 
he called. Master Jem.’’ 

^^Woh, Paddy.” The horse stopped. Who’s 
that?” 

Ah, I knew it was you.” James came up, stopped 
and stood swaying on his toes. Sure I knew your 
voice; sure I knew the Paddy horse . . . .” 

Is that you, James Daly? ” 

Ay, it is. Why, divil’s in me, can’t ye see it is.” 
James lurched. To be sure it’s me.” 

What do ye want? What are ye doin’ here this 
hour of the night? ” 

Ah, I was only out kaleyin’.” James put out a 
hand and steadied himself against the Paddy horse. 

A couple o’ the boys an’ meself were together yon- 
der in ” 

I know. Well, good-night to ye, James; an’ safe 
home. Keep in the middle of the road an’ follow your 
nose. Come, Paddy.” Jem clicked his tongue; the 
horse moved; James reeled, then lurched forward and 
clutched at the bridle. Let go,” cried Jem; let go, 
ye fool! ” 

But James held tight. ^^Kaw,” said he, his voice 
big with the courage of poteen; not a foot I’ll 
let go till ye tell me where you’re goin’.” The horse 
swung round, backed against the ditch and there stood 
plunging, with James gripping the bridle and Jem toss- 
ing in the saddle. Not a foot I’ll let go,” said James, 
not a danged foot.” 

Woh^ Paddy — woh, man.” Jem leant forward. 


208 


IRISH PASTORALS 


patting and stroking the horse’s neck. Look here, 
James. You’re fool enough without making yourself 
worse. Let go, like a man, an’ go home to your bed. 
Anne’s waitin’ for ye, an’ there’s all those potatoes to be 
dug, ye know, an’ ” 

I’ll niver dig another pratie as long as I live .... 
I’ll do what I like, an’ I’ll go where I like .... I’ll 
not go home, not a foot. What the blazes about Anne? 

.... Damme, I’ll do as I like ! . . . . Where are ye 
goin’, I ask ye ? ” shouted J ames, raving on the stones. 

Then Jem slipped from the saddle. James,” said 
he, be quiet, man, for God’s sake! People’ll hear ye. 
Pm only goin’ for a ride.” 

Ride? Ride the divil! Ah, ye can’t fool me, Jem 
boy. I know ye, me son. Yis. An’ I know where 
you’re off to. Yis. It’s to Glann fair you’re goin’. 
Yis. Ho, I’m the boy. An’ whisht; be the king, but 
I’ll g’ with ye. I will — I will.” Mouthing and bleath- 
ering, James let go the bridle and came to Jem’s side. 

Come on, me son,” shouted James, we’ll tramp the 
road together.” .... And the next minute Jem was 
in the saddle and off; and behind him James was floun- 
dering and running, and shouting, Wait for me, Jem; 
ah, dang ye for a blaggard, wait for me.” 

It was a saying in Emo, that James Daly with drink 
and a notion in his head would follow the notion to 
blazes; and assuredly, that morning of his truancy, he 
pursued his notion with all obstinacy. Rightly or 
wrongly, he had decided that Master Jem was riding to 
Glann fair; thereupon, taken with a sudden whim, had 
willed it that to Glann fair James Daly himself must 


THE DIGGEKS 


209 


go; thereafter, at sight and sound of Jem’s defection, 
was possessed of this whim (they call it a notion in Emo) 
and driven by it as by a brute passion. It mattered 
nothing that Glann lay ten miles beyond Bunn town, 
nothing that it was two o’clock in an October morning, 
nothing that Master Jem might be riding to anywhere 
but Glann, nothing that Anne was waiting and wailing, 
that he was hungry and would soon be weary: these 
things were not worth a thought, came never within hail 
of thought: the one thing that mattered in the world 
was the burning impulse, the wild fuming notion that 
resistlessly bore him on. Let all else go to glory: there 
before him lay the road to Glann. 

So, on along the silent road, between the sleeping 
hedges, James went hurrying; pressing on like one 
possessed, stumbling now and staggering, running 
now and panting, muttering at times between his 
teeth, or cursing volubly, or calling upon that blag- 
gard of a Jem to wait for him. It was nearing 
two o’clock when he left Bilboa; it was half past two 
when he passed the clock in Bunn market-house, turned 
through the Diamond and went tramping down Main 
street; by three he was rid of the town again and far out 
among the hedges. He met not a soul, heard or heeded 
nothing; had no thought of time or of loneliness, hardly 
turned his head when a dog came rushing. Through 
the long avenue of firs he went; rounded the shores of 
Sheila lake; passed safely through the wastes of bog- 
land and came again to the sheltering hills; dragged on 
past Moira chapel, toiled wearily up Lunny’s brae, came 
at last to Willow-bridge (which stands halfway between 


210 


lEISH PASTOEALS 


Glann and Bunn), and there stopped. Poteen was dead 
in him. Sleep was imperious, nature exhausted. He 
stumbled to a doorstep, sank against the door; and bless- 
edly slept. 


IV 

About seven o’clock Dan Willis of Moira, a man who 
many times had travelled to Emo with cattle and horses, 
left his cart, crossed Willow-bridge street and shook 
James Daly awake. 

What are ye doin’ there? ” he shouted. Are ye 
for the fair? Wake up — wake up.” 

Blinking and staring, James sat upright on the door- 
step; looked at Dan, at the whitewashed wall beside 
him, at the sidewalk; rubbed his eyes, wet his lips, 
looked up again. Where am I? ” said he. What — 
what — where am I at all? ” 

You’re in Willow-bridge What the divil’s 

up wi’ ye? ... . How did ye come here? ” 

James shook his head slowly; set elbows on knees 
and face in hands; looked at his boots and fell to grop- 
ing for himself in the hazy back-ways of thought. 

^^How did ye come here? .... What made ye go 
to sleep there? .... Are ye for the fair? ” 

Stiffly James rose, shivering the while and moistening 
his lips. His tongue was swollen, his throat parched; 
every bone in him cried out. I am,” answered he. 

I — I tried to walk an’ couldn’t. ’Twas too far. I 
got beat on the road .... I’ll — I’ll be for home, I’m 
thinkin’.” 


THE DIGGEKS 


211 


Home? Back to Emo an^ you within sight of 
Glann almost! Man, you’re mad .... Come on to 
the cart here an’ I’ll give ye a lift.” 

I’m thankful to ye, but — ” James stood consider- 
ing. All right, then. Sure I may as well.” 

Five miles over a rough road in a springless cart, an 
hour’s botheration with questions which he tried to 
evade and answers which he had to give, left James alto- 
gether awake if still groping in search of his old har- 
monious self. Most of his own questions he had an- 
swered, part of the way before him lay plain to his eyes; 
still remained sore bones, parched throat, the dregs of 
foolishness, the pricks and stings of conscience, the dull 
aching of regret. Between him and home lay thirteen 
miles Irish, in his pocket was fifteen pence sterling; he 
felt like a whipped dog .... but he was out in the 
world at last. 

In the kitchen of Nolan’s eating-house he warmed his 
blood, made a breakfast of strong tea, smoked a pipe; 
then, feeling refreshed, made the most of his tatters and 
boldly issued upon the sidewalks. He had still nine- 
pence, the day was fine, the fair in swing; let worrying 
go to glory, said James Daly, and boldly faced the 
world. 

He went down Main street, strolling in the sunshine 
and deigning to return the salutations of one here and 
there upon the sidewalk; sauntered through the market 
and fiiade note of the latest quotations in fodder and 
eggs; had a morning glass with a friend and another 
with himself and a friend; took stock of the shops, 
bought half an ounce of tobacco and a new pipe, spent 


212 


IKISH PASTORALS 


a while among the standings and apple stalls; turned 
uphill to the fair-green and paraded it like a magistrate, 
hands under coat-tails and hat cocked on an eye; helped 
in a bargain or two, made note of this and that, then 
lighted his pipe and leisurely made for the horse-fair. 
Like any gentleman James strolled at his ease, glorying 
in the big sunshine of the world. Emo was far away, 
hundreds of miles away, and Anne mourning in the 
cabin, and Mike toiling at the digging. Emo and 
Rhamus; Anne and Mike; toil and trouble? To glory 
with them! 

The horse-fair was not yet at its height but dealing had 
long begun. Big, red-faced men (black Saxons from 
Manchester these) in cords and leggings went in and out, 
saying little and seeing much, judging a horse at a 
glance, pricing him in a twinkle. Farmers, jockeys, 
agents (among them, you may be sure, the tattered fig- 
ure of one James Daly) trudged up and down from 
group to group; scattered back when a horse came 
plunging along the roadway, or a mare backed upon the 
sidewalk; shouted, blustered, swore, bargained with a 
rare vigour of language and gesture, fiung insult and 
scorn with brutal freedom, and jests that smote. The 
air reeked with the savour of stables; the confusion and 
hubbub were bewildering; horses and men alike seemed 
possessed of some demon of unrest. 

Midway down the street, right in thick of the fair, 
James Daly of a sudden pulled hands from pockets, 
shrunk against a wall and stood peering at the figure of 
a tall young fellow in dark tweeds who went showing 
the paces of a black horse. His face was fiushed, his 


THE DIGGEES 


213 


clothes were splattered with mud; he looked weary, 
ran heavily. It was Jem himself. 

Master Jem? The Paddy horse? So James had 
guessed right after all. Think of that now, and think 
of forgetting all about the boy! But what was he do- 
ing? asked James of himself, and stood peering through 
the crowd. Surely the Master had never sent him to 
Glann to sell a horse? No, no; never would the Master 
think of such a thing. Then — then .... A sudden 
flash of perception shone in upon James, quick and 
shrewdly thought worked, memory lent its aid; and in 
a minute he knew all, in a minute too had shaken off 
the robe of folly and stepped back into the tatters of 
his old faithful self. ^^Aw, Master Jem, Master Jem,’’ 
thought he, is that what you’d be doin’ ? Ah, but it’s 
well I minded me ’twas Glann fair-day; sure but it’s 
well . . . .” 

What to do? He must act warily. To force things 
were to ruin them. The lad was tired and hungry, was 
excited and cross: a wrong word and all was spoilt. 
What to do? If only James could have a quiet talk 
with him; if only someone James knew would buy the 
horse ; if only .... Another inspiration flashed upon 
James; and turning sharply he went running through 
the crowd. And as he ran, one of the crowd, a big man 
with a brown beard, stood watching him in a doorway. 

Ten minutes’ search found the man James wanted — 
the man Dan Willis of Moira, who that morning had 
carried him from Willow-bridge to Glann. Come 
here, Dan,” said James pulling at his sleeve; come 
away wi’ me .... Ye see that black horse yonder; 


214 


IRISH PASTORALS 


wellj go an’ buy it from the young man that’s with it. 
You’ll know who he is; but niver heed. Give him 
what he axes, an ... . Ah, hold your tongue till I’m 
finished. Give him what he axes, I tell ye; take the 
horse to Nolan’s yard; tell him to meet ye for the money 
in Nolan’s parlour, an’ leave the rest to me . . . . 
Arrah, whisht wi’ ye, I say. Man alive, I know what 
I’m about. Pll pay the money, Fll meet him an’ pay. 
I’ve got it here in me pocket. I tell ye I was sent to 
buy the horse .... Whisht, Dan; whisht. Listen 
to me, then: Yon’s the young Master, an’ yon’s the 
Paddy horse, an’ . . . .” 

Ten minutes afterwards Dan led the Paddy horse into 
Nolan’s yard, lingered a while in the stable; then, just 
as Jem went climbing to Nolan’s parlour, slipped out 
upon the street — and met the Master. 


V 

Nolan’s parlour was a big room, bare, ill-lighted, 
furnished for the day with rough tables, rickety forms 
and a few chairs. It smelt of peat-smoke and damp 
and bad whisky; its aspect was cheerless. On a table 
was a tray; on the tray a glass of whisky; by the table 
sat James Daly. 

At sound of Jem’s foot upon the stairs, James rose, 
plucked at his neckband, crossed to the window. The 
door opened. Jem came in. James turned. 

Ho, ho. Master Jem — ho, ho. An’ is that your- 
self now? Well, well. Now, who the divil’d have im- 


THE DIGGEES 


215 


agined I was goin’ to see yourself when I looked round? 
Sure 

Jem had stopped by the door, surprise and suspicion 
quick on his face; now he came quickly forward and 
stopped again near the table. What are ye doin^ 
here, James Daly?’^ he asked, loudly and fiercely. 

Who sent ye here? What d’ye want? ” 

James looked at his glass, and nodded. Just that,” 
said he. 

What brought ye to Glann? ” cried Jem, stepping 
nearer. What brought ye, I say? ” 

James rubbed his chin. Well, part o’ the way it 
was me feet, an’ ” 

Up went Jem’s hand. By the Lord above. I’ll — 
Answer me, Daly,” he shouted; answer me quick! 
What brought ye to Glann, I say? ” 

I followed ye. Master Jem.” 

Ye followed me. An’ why?” Anger was black 
on the lad’s face, big in his voice. An’ why? ” he 
shouted. 

James flinched not a step. I dunno,” he answered. 

Somethin’ — be it the divil, or be it the drink — sent 
me, an’ so I followed ye.” 

It’s a lie. Ye do know. It’s a lie, sir. You’re 
spyin’ on me.” James shook his head. Then why 
are ye here? ” James kept silent. Why are ye here, 
I say? ” shouted Jem again. 

A moment James hesitated, a moment stood weigh- 
ing his courage; then looked up boldly and answered. 

’Twas to pay ye for a horse, Master Jem — a horse that 
Dan Willis of Moira bought from ye a while ago.” 


216 


IKISH PASTORALS 


Jem stood speechless, brimming with amazement. 
James moved back a step, drew a long breath, went on: 

’Twas pure chance. Master Jem, that I seen ye last 
night. God himself knows what made me follow ye. 
I knew this was Glann fair-day; I knew .... Och, 
^twas pure chance. An’ God himself knows that when 
I seen ye in the street yonder I could hardly believe me 
eyes. I — I ” 

James stopped, moved away another step. Jem 
stood silent, breathing fast and heavily. 

Ah, but sure ye wouldn’t do it,” pleaded James, with 
a sudden change of manner; sure ye wouldn’t dis- 
grace your name.” 

Again James stopped. Jem said not a word, but 
passion was mastering him, I couldn’t see ye doin’ 
it — I couldn’t let ye . . . .” 

Again James stopped, again moved back a step; then 
looked J em in the eyes and stretched a hand. Do 
what ye like with me. Master Jem; do what ye like. 

I’m tellin’ ye the truth. I dunno what ye think ” 

Think? Ye lyin’ cur! .... What business is it 
o’ yours? What right have ye to come interferin’? By 
God, I could kill ye! ” Hoarse with passion, his eyes 
glowing, J em rushed at J ames, took him by the throat 
and swung him round against a table. You’d follow 
me? You’d spy on me? By God, I’ll kill ye ! ” Chairs 
and forms went flying; the table clattered down; here 
and there the feet went scuffling: outside, someone came 
up the stairs, opened the door and stopped at the thresh- 
old. I’ll show ye, Daly. I’ll teach ye your place.” 
Another table went over, another form. James strug- 


THE DIGGEES 


21Y 


gled and pleaded; Jem shouted and fought, swung 
J ames up and down .... dropped his arms at last and 
stood looking towards the doorway. 

In the sudden silence that came feet were heard upon 
the stairs. The Master turned, spoke a word or two; 
then came in, closed the door, crossed to a table, seated 
himself upon it and folded his arms. Jem had moved 
back to the wall. James stood panting by the window. 

That was a desperate scuffle, boys.’’ The Master 
spoke in his most everyday voice. He looked at James 
and laughed. It’s a pity Anne can’t see you now, 
James,” he said drily. Faith, she’d admire you. 
What have you been doing to bring this upon yourself? ” 

James fumbled with his open waistcoat, looked at 
Jem and grinned. Aw, bedad, sir, that’s a question. 
Sure — sure — Aw, now, ’twas only a wee differ Master 
Jem an’ meself were havin’.” 

I know.” The Master nodded and glanced at Jem; 
sat further back on the table, looked slyly at James. 

Mebbe ’twas over the price of a horse you differed? ” 
he said. 

James looked at Jem. J em stood eyeing the Master. 
Neither moved nor spoke. The Master laid his stick 
upon the table. 

I hear it’s a good fair,” he said, quite casually. 

Stock are up, and horses I see are sellin’ well. I was 
late gettin’ in — but that couldn’t be helped. ’Twas 
only when I got to Bunn that I decided to come at all.” 

A pause came. Still James stood looking at Jem; 
still Jem stood eyeing the Master. 

I met Dan Willis of Moira outside,” the Master 


218 


lEISH PASTOKALS 


went on, and he tells me he’s bought a horse very 
dear. He says he gave thirty pounds for it without a 
luck penny. That’s dear — mighty dear for an ould 
cart horse. I went with him to see it and ” 

Jem stepped from the wall. Enough of this,” he 
said. James, out ye go.” James crossed for his hat, 
slouched out and closed the door. Jem went back to the 
wall, leant against it and folded his arms. He was 
breathing quickly; but his eyes met the Master’s with a 
stare of defiance. 

Say what you’re goin’ to say an’ have done with it.” 

^^Say?” The Master sat back on the table, elbow 
in one hand, chin in the other, a forefinger lying be- 
tween his lips; his brows were bent and beneath them 
he watched Jem with eyes that searched and read. 

Say?” He paused; his forefinger working upon his 
lips. What is there to say? ” 

What ye like. I don’t care a button. You’ve 
caught me ” — again that stare of defiance — an’ I don’t 
care.” 

Don’t you?” The Master nodded. His words 
came drily. He sat grave and quiet, and his eyes were 
deep. 

^^Ho; not a button. I’d do it again. It’s not my 
fault. I had no other way.” 

The Master’s finger pressed tighter upon his lips; 
Jem, whipped to sudden anger by his silence, moved 
from the wall and broke out passionately: Ye drove 

me to it — ye drove me to it. A thousand times I’ve 
said to ye: Give me money an’ let me go. An’ ye 
wouldn’t. No, ye wouldn’t! You’d keep me at home — 


THE DIGGEES 


219 


you’d shut me up like a dog in a kennel — you’d make 
me spend my life in the fields, drudgin’ like a slave 
.... Ye drove me to it, I say. Yesterday’s work 
finished it. It’s your own doin’ .... I did my best,” 
cried the lad; I did my best .... An’ now — ” 
Jem paused, his hands fell. 

Yes?” Again the Master nodded. ^^And now?” 

I’ll go.” Jem came forward, hands clenched, head 
back and eyes gleaming. I’ll go in spite of ye. Ye 
may take me back; ye may do what ye like: but I’ll go 
in spite of ye.” The lad’s voice rang out boldly; as if 
braced to meet the world he stood before his father 
clothed with the insolence of youth. I said yester- 
day I’d go; an’ I’ll go in spite of ye.” 

I know.” The Master paused a breath. You’d 
go even as a thief? ” 

I’m no thief. I deny it. What if I did take 
the horse? What if I did mean to sell it an’ keep 
the money? Haven’t I earnt it all? Would the price 
of three horses pay me for all the work I’ve done for ye ? 
Would it, I say? ” 

The Master sat silent, pressing a forefinger against 
his lips; having, strange to tell, sorrow heavier on his 
heart than anger. 

Ah, ye know it wouldn’t.” The lad’s voice swelled 
loud and scornful. An’ yet ye call me a thief! A 
thief? Then why did ye drive me to it? Why didn’t 
ye give me money long ago an’ let me go ? Why didn’t 
ye, I say? ” 

Still the Master kept silence. What indeed was there 
to say? Why didnH you let me gof Can any man look 


220 


lEISH PASTOKALS 


child of his in the eyes and dare venture answer to 
that? 

But no. Ye wouldn’t listen to me. You’d keep 
me at home. You’d bully me an’ drive me. You’d 
work me to death. You’d talk, an’ talk, an’ talk; an’ 
I wanted no talk. I was sick of it. I wanted only to 
get away, to get out an’ away — away out into the world. 
.... Ah, can’t ye see,” cried the lad spreading his 
arms; can’t ye see? ” 

Yes.” The Master sighed; dropped his eyes and 
sat looking at the floor. He saw only too well; had 
seen maybe for long enough. Only — only — Well, 
fathers are foolish creatures; and somehow delight not 
in casting their children upon the world. Yes,” said 
the Master, sighing heavily; I see.” 

And I’ll go yet.” Again came that ringing cry of 
insolent youth. Ye may take me back, ye may do 
what ye like; but I’ll go yet.” 

Then the Master looked up. It’s the best thing 
you can do,” he said. 

What! ” 

You can have money,” said the Master quietly. 
Jem had not a word. 

‘‘ You can go when you like.” The Master slipped 
from the table, turned for his stick. Only,” added he, 
maybe your mother would like to bid you good-bye.” 
Kis mother might like to hid him good-bye. Just a 
breath of sentiment, just a few simple words spoken 
quietly and simply: but how the words whipped Jem’s 
blood, and how the reproach of them beat upon his 
heart! A score of times had he stood before the Mas- 


THE DIGGERS 


221 


ter taking reproof and admonition and command with 
sullen obduracy; now, at last, in sight of his freedom and 
on the very threshold of the world, he stood humbled and 
softened, conquered by a phrase that struck at his heart. 
Just a word or two, just a look and a word: and behold, 
at last, the lad as wax in the Master^s hand. Anger 
died in him and bitterness; the cloak of his insolence fell 
in the dust. Emotion surged full in him. A yearning 
for home and for all at home — for everyone and every- 
thing, for his mother and sister, for the big kitchen and 
Tim the dog lying by the hearth, for the fields, even, 
and the hills and the peasants toiling upon them — swept, 
in and mastered him. His lips began quivering. A 
lump rose in his throat. Tears welled up. He turned 
to the window, biting at his lip; leant against the frame 
and stood fighting himself .... turned at last with 
a quick sound of sobbing. Father,’’ he said. Father! 
I’ll go home — I’ll go home ” 

Sometime during that afternoon, about a mile on the 
Glann side of Bunn town, a youth riding a black horse 
overtook an elderly man, who, hat far back on his head, 
one arm swinging and his coat across the other, went 
trudging the dust. One looked at the other; nodded; 
laughed. 

So that’s yourself, James? ” 

Ay, troth. Master J em — ^what’s left o’ me.” 

An’ you’re for home, James? ” 

Och, ay. Strugglin’ for home.” 

Back again to the slavery, an’ the mud cabin, an’ 
the diggin’ at the rotten praties? ” 


222 


IKISH PASTORALS 


^^Ay, indeed.’’ James laughed and drew a sleeve 
across his brow. Och, ay. Aw, to be sure.” 

Aw, to be sure, indeed.” The two kept silent a 
minute, their eyes fixed upon the long ribbon of road. 

An’ tell me, James — are ye glad to be goin’ home? ” 
Glad? ” James looked up. Well God knows I 
am. Master Jem — gladder nor all in the world.” 

I know.” A smile came to Jem’s face, fiitted there, 
and died. Another minute passed silently. James 
shifted his coat from this arm to that, glanced up at 
Jem, looked across the hedge; came nearer to the Paddy 
horse and spoke. 

I say. Master Jem. Listen to me now. What 
about yourself? • Is it for home you are too? ” 

Ay, indeed.” Jem laughed, mimicking James’ 
speech. Och, ay. Aw, to be sure.” 

^^Ay? An’ listen to me.” James came nearer. 

Is it glad yourself ’ll be? ” 

^^Glad?” Jem looked down into James’ eyes, 
smiled; then drew himself up in the saddle. By the 
king, J ames, I’m as happy as a bird ! It’s all right, me 
son; it’s all right. I’m goin’ — I’m goin’! Glad? 
Ah, by the livin’ king, I could fly! ” 

He gave the reins a stroke, skirled wildly, waved his 
cap and went off cantering between the hedges. And 
as he went the long road was a primrose path before 
him; a path going fair and straight for home — and 
for the big world that lay shining beyond it. 


THE HERD 




■t 




I 





9 


A 



I 


I T was a blustering day in early March; a day of 
racing clouds and fickle gleams of sunshine, a 
merry day, a hopeful day, a day that came shouting 
to men a glad promise of spring. You could feel it in the 
air, that message of life and mystery. It was in the 
wind, the sunshine, the rush of the clouds; you could 
smell it, see it, open your arms and crush it to yourself; 
it cried up to you from the sopping fields, piped to you 
in the naked hedges; it was there — and there — and 
there, mysterious, intangible, certain as life itself, the 
first fiush and quiver of things on the face of a waking 
world. But only a fiush, a message: for old Winter 
still reigned in the land. 

It was of spring that the Master was thinking that 
day, as slowly he went splashing along the Curleck road 
down from Emo towards Kilfad and the shore; of 
spring, and work, and the ordering of things. His 
thoughts ran slowly, soberly, prosaically. That quiver 
of things made no turmoil in his heart, no ferment in his 
blood; his feet went heavily through rut and puddle; 
no vain beauty of sky or mountain tempted him to raise 
head and look out across the hedges; soberly he walked 
along, hands clasped behind him, beard sweeping his 
breast, mind busy with thoughts of work — grim, un- 
ending work, and of spring — clean life-giving spring, 
with its gifts of sunshine and leaves, and warmth and 
225 


226 


IKISH PASTOKALS 


hope, and long days of fierce unresting labour. The 
winter had been hard and weary, the rains long and per- 
sistent; for months and months had the fields lain dead 
and the hills stood barren : but now, thought the Master, 
now spring was coming. He knew it. Instinct, feel- 
ing, something in the air, in himself, told him. He 
knew it. A few days more of bluster and sunshine, and 
the fields would be dry, the roads firm, spades busy, 

work going steadily Involuntarily, the Master 

raised his head, fiung back his shoulders, quickened his 
steps and to the merry lilt of a tune went splashing on 
his way. 

He went through the oak plantation, crossed the Cur- 
rach bridge (against the tumbled parapet of which, you 
may remember, George Lunny once leant his stilts 
whilst he looked at the moon),, splattered through the 
puddles that lay darkly between the willow hedges; 
came presently to a gateway and, turning his back on 
Thrasna river, took to the fields — his own fields, the 
fields of Kilfad, famous from Gorteen to Bunn town 
for their grass and their mushrooms. 

Along the pasture he went, whence sprang rushes 
three feet high from land that sagged to the foot like a 
filled sponge; skirted the Round hill (beyond which are 
Curleck woods and the home of Bessie Bredin) ; picked 
his way through a trampled gap, up a winding path, and 
coming to the crest of a slope there paused, turned, 
stood weighing his coat-tails and slowly sweeping the 
land with a long steady gaze. 

The fields were empty, lying there among the hedges 
in their dull garb of winter, heavy and soaked to the 


THE HEED 


227 


lip. Not a beast moved within eye-shot, not a bird in 
a quickset; only a hay-rack standing far up the hillside, 
and the cluck of fowls round Jordan’s cottage, gave evi- 
dence that life ran anywhere on Kilfad. Everything 
lay fallow, dreary, dead, thought the Master and looked 
out towards Gorteen and the long gleam of the moun- 
tain; everything, everywhere — the fields, hills, hedges, 
the grass, the trees, the houses even — lay there in the 
sunshine, dead and waiting for spring. For spring? 
Ah, yes; for the blessed spring, thought the Master; 
then turning again went on through the rushes and 
came to the cottage of J ordan the herd. 

A long, low house it was, built of stone and white- 
washed; having a doorway in its middle, a small win- 
dow on either side, and a single chimney springing from 
the thatch. Nakedly it stood upon the field, a lean-to 
at this end, a pig-sty at that; behind, a long narrow 
byre, a little pile of turf, a low butt of hay; here a 
hedge, there a row of poplars; in front, a trampled 
street, noisome and sprinkled with starveling fowls: no 
garden plot, not a shrub or a plant, not a rag behind the 
windows, not a step even at the threshold, nothing any- 
where but the chimney reek and the chickens in the mud 
to show that anything but beasts of the field had here 
found a home. Nothing but these and a very human 
sound of squalling that came with the smoke out 
through the doorway. 

Sniffing and frowning, the Master crossed the street; 
came to the doorway and raised his voice. Anyone 
at home?” he shouted. No answer came; none but a 
sudden hush within and a clatter among the stools. The 


228 


IRISH PASTORALS 


Master came nearer, peered between the doorposts, 
called again. Are you there, Henry? Are you at 
home, Ellen? ’’ 

Still no answer; then, in a minute, the soft fall of 
bare feet on the clay floor, a quick parting of the smoke- 
curtain, and there on the threshold — bare-legged and 
bare-armed, hair in wisps, face pale and worn, in her 
arms a baby, beside her and clutching at her tattered 
cotton skirt a flock of children — stood the flgure of a 
girl. Not a word she said, not a sound came from 
the children; as if by magic the group appeared 
from the smoke and stood there motionless by the 
threshold. 

The Master looked at them, sideways under his 
brushy eyebrows; then grunted and nodded at the girl. 

Oh, it’s you. Jinny? ” said he. 

Yis, sir.” The girl’s voice was soft, very timorous. 

You’re not at school then, to-day? ” 

No, sir.” 

And why not? ” 

I — I — Please, sir, I had to mind the childer.” 

The Master grunted again; looked towards the flelds, 
caught his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, turned again 
to Jinny. 

I know,” he said. And where’s your father? ” 

Please, sir, gone across the land with the billhook.” 

I know. And where’s your mother, Jinny? ” asked 
the Master, looking full at the girl, both voice and man- 
ner curt with meaning. 

The girl’s eyes fell. She shifted the baby from this 
arm to that; flushed; looked up. Gone to town,” she 


THE HERD 


229 


answered haltingly, as from the verge of tears. She^s 
— she^s gone to town.’’ 

The Master nodded. A grim look came to his face; 
his eyes grew stern. 

To town,” growled he; then, with a glance at the 
girl, And you’re left here by yourself. Jinny? Left 
to mind the children? ” 

She shrank back a step into the curtain of smoke, 
and the flock of solemn-eyed children with her; shrank 
back, softly and silently, into the blue depths of 
the smoke. And as she went the curtain closed, her 
face went out, and her voice came murmuring. Ah, 
yes, sir,” it came; ah, yes. But — sure — sure . . . .” 

The Master buttoned his coat; bent his head and en- 
tered the cabin. Before him the children scattered 
back, like rabbits from a keeper, and went scuttling 
through the pots and pans, the baskets and stools, which 
cumbered the floor. Jinny turned and ran, laid the 
baby in a box that stood in a corner, snatched up a chair, 
wiped it with a corner of her skirt and placed it by the 
hearth. Peering here and there through the drifting 
smoke — at the litter of a dresser, the chaos of a table — 
his head almost touching the rafters, his bigness loom- 
ing giant-like in the little room, his feet wandering un- 
certainly over the floor, the Master crossed the kitchen, 
turned on the hearth, and stood with his back to the pots 
and the fire, face towards Jinny and the chair. 

No — no,” he said, with a wave of his hand. I 
won’t be sitting. Jinny. I want to — When did she 
go? ” he asked. 

Is it mother, sir? ” 


230 


lEISH PASTOKALS 


Yes/^ 

’Twas — ’’ Jinny hesitated; moved away a little; 
stood fidgeting with her skirt. 

’Twas a good while ago — after breakfast time — 
’bout ten o’clock mebbe.” 

Yes? ” The Master pulled up the chair, sat down 
with his arms resting on its back and his cheek in his 
hand. Don’t be afraid, Jinny,” he said, his voice 
softening. Come. Be a woman. And how did she 
go? ” he went on, as Jinny looked up. 

On Bredin’s jinnet an’ cart, sir.” 

I see.” The Master paused a moment. ^^And she 
went by herself. Jinny? ” 

No . . . . No, sir.” 

Oh. How’s that? ” The Master’s tone of surprise 
seemed forced. Who was it went with her. Jinny? ” 

Please, sir — ” Jinny stopped. A minute of si- 
lence fell. Not a sound came from the scattered chil- 
dren, cowering somewhere back in nooks and corners; 
not a whimper from the baby in its box. Please, 
sir — ” She stopped again. 

Yes, Jinny .... Well? ... . Tell me. Jinny 
. . . . Was it anyone I know? ” 

Yes — yes, sir.” A pause. ’Twas — ” Another 
pause; then suddenly: ’Twas Black Ned from beyont 
the lough.” 

And at that Jinny put face in hands and fell to 
sobbing. 

The Master sat gripping his beard and looking sternly 
towards the doorway. He had heard only what he had 
expected to hear; still .... The hussy,” he mut- 


THE HEED 


231 


tered to himself. How could she? What kind was she? 

Oh, the tinker,’’ muttered the Master; then turned 
quickly to Jinny. But what’s this?” he said. 

What’s this I hear? Come over to me. Jinny. What 
are you crying about? ” asked the Master, and took the 
child by an arm. What is there to cry about? Your 
mother will be back, you know. Maybe she’s nearly 
back now . . . .” 

It’s not that,” sobbed Jinny. Oh, it’s not that.” 

Then what. Jinny? Tell me.” 

What brings him here,” cried the child. What 
does he want? He’s — he’s always here. Couldn’t he 
leave us alone? Ah, I hate him — I hate him,” cried 
Jinny through her sobs. I hate the face of him — an’ 
the sight of him — an’ the voice of him. I dunno — I 
dunno what it is; but — Ah, he means no good. I 
know it, I know it,” sobbed Jinny; nor could the Master 
sitting there in his wisdom give back to the child so 
much as a word. The hussy,” was all he could say; 

oh, the tinker.” And so silence fell. 

Presently, from the corners came a sound of stifled 
sobbing, from the box a voice that waxed swiftly to 
clamour and fury; Jinny ceased sobbing and stood 
looking at her hands; the Master woke suddenly 
to a perception of things, pushed back his hat and 
rose. 

Heigho,” he sighed; then stepped from the hearth. 

What’s all this I hear, boys?” he called cheerily to- 
wards the nooks and corners. Come, come; that’s a 
poor noise to be making. Jinny’s not crying: are you. 
Jinny? ” He took her by the arm, led her to the door- 


232 


lEISH PASTORALS 


way, and turned her face to his. Never mind/’ he 
said; be brave, Jinny. Do the best you can. Your 
mother will be home soon; if I meet her Fll hurry her. 
She must go to town sometimes, you know .... Any- 
how, don’t fret; and come up to Emo one of these days 
for an old dress or something I heard the mistress talk- 
ing about. Come now — cheer up — and away in like a 
girl and see to the baby. Run now.” 

I will, sir — I will.” 

That’s a girl.” And the Master went. 

Turning towards the lake, he went through the fields, 
over the Round hill, across a footstick, and striking the 
Curleck road made towards Emo. His feet dragged 
heavily, his eyes sought the road. The jade,” he 
muttered at times; and again, The tinker ”; and again, 

God help them all! ” Very busy were his thoughts: 
but not now did they turn to work, or cattle, or the 
coming of spring. 

Right at foot of the hill, where the road curves 
away from the river, sights the willows and makes 
straight for the Currach bridge; just there the Master 
stopped, raised his head and stood listening — with hands 
clasped behind him, shoulders slack and head twisted 
from the river, stood listening to an irregular thud of 
chopping, broken and smothered by a sullen roar of 
coughing, that came to him across the hedge. A min- 
ute he stood in the roadway, motionless and heark- 
ening; then, groaning aloud as if in pain, mounted 
the ditch, put hands round mouth and shouted into 
the wind. 

Henry — Henry.” The sound of chopping ceased. 


THE HEED 


m 


Henry — Henry/’ The sound of coughing came 
clearer. With his head bent to the wind, the Master 
stood on the ditch steadily eyeing the figure that came 
towards him across the grass. 

A middle-aged man he was, big of bones and body, 
but woefully meagre of fiesh, his eyes burning bright, 
face brick-red, a tatter of whiskers on his cheeks and 
iron-gray stubble on his chin. He wore tattered cord 
trousers, a sleeved moleskin waistcoat and a brown felt 
hat; from knee to boot his legs were wound about with 
ropes twisted from hay, round his neck was a long wool- 
len mufiler; his hands were chapped and scratched, his 
lips blue and dry, through the open front of his 
cotton shirt you had sight of his naked chest. Slowly, 
awkwardly, one foot listlessly dragging after the other, 
this long arm swinging by his side, the other curled 
round the haft of a billhook, he came along the hillside ; 
stopped before the Master and raised his eyes. 

Good evenin’,” he said, with a nod. It’s brave 
weather.” 

It is, Henry,” answered the Master. What are 
you doing over there? ” 

I was hedgin’,” came back, slowly, gruffly; clearin’ 
the briars. The ditch was choked,” said the man after 
a pause; and again, I wanted somethin’ for the fire.” 
He let the billhook slide through his arm, fixed the 
blade between his feet, leant his chest upon the haft and 
stood looking at the grass. 

Briars make bad firing, Henry,” said the Master, 
looking towards the little pile of bramble that lay by a 
ditch out in the field. 


234 


IKISH PASTOEALS 


The worst/’ came back. But they’re better than 
nothin’.” 

No turf, Henry? ” 

Next to none.” 

No sticks? ” 

Sorrow a stick.” 

The man’s manner was listless, slow, weary. He 
spoke with an effort, wasting not a word. His gaze 
across the field was bovine in its steady contemplative- 
ness. From time to time he shook from head to heel 
with a paroxysm of coughing. 

‘‘ Can you do nothing for that^ Henry? ” asked the 
Master at last, with a jerk of his head and a look at the 
heaving chest. 

Pve tried iverything.” 

Been to the doctor lately? ” 

I have.” 

Well? ” 

He said I’d make a fine ould man with a new pair o’ 
bellows in me.” 

Ah! ” The Master pursed his lips, shook his head; 
looked away. Wouldn’t it be wise, Henry, to get a 
button on that shirt and wear a coat? ” 

I dunno. Mebbe it might.” 

Nothing seemed of interest to the man. He stood 
there leaning on his billhook, just answering and cough- 
ing, waiting seemingly for nothing in the world but 
word to go. 

I’ve been beyond at the house, Henry,” said the 
Master again. I wanted to see you.” 

-Ay.” 


THE HEED 


235 


I — I suppose tlie cattle are thriving? 

They’re doin’ well — all but that red heifer. She’s 
only donny.” 

I know. And — I must come to see her. Yes.” 
Somehow the Master seemed ill at ease. He had the 
air of one who beats about the bush. Then Henry 
turned. 

Ye say ye didn’t see her when ye were over? ” he 
questioned, wonderingly. Ye passed them by an’ 
niver looked at them! ” 

The Master stood accused. Never before in his life 
had he passed through Kilfad and not taken stock of all 
that lived upon it. 

I did,” he answered. I — I forgot. But — ” He 
paused; then plunged. Do you think it’s wise, Henry, 
to leave those children over there by themselves — there 
with Jinny? Something might happen them . . . .” 

Henry pondered, still leaning upon the bill haft. 

There might,” he said, with a jerk of his head. 
^^An’ there mightn’t,” he added slowly. 

The children were crying, Henry,” the Master con- 
tinued, probing cautiously and watchfully. Jinny 
came when I called. I went in.” He stopped. Henry 
nodded; coughed; kept silent. There was no one 
there but Jinny,” said the Master. Henry stood gazing 
impassively at the hillside. The Master was foiled. 

I suppose Ellen was out looking for firing? ” he said, 
casually and with a smack of the ironical. 

Again Henry nodded; pondered; spoke. Mebbe 
she was,” said he. 

‘‘ Or gone fishing? ” 


236 


IRISH PASTORALS 


Ay, indeed/’ 

Or gone in Bredin’s cart to town.” 

Mebbe so,” came back — that and not another word. 

The Master wheeled away with a laugh and stood 
looking out across the big meadow towards Bilboa. He 
felt beaten, thwarted, puzzled. As well might he have 
talked to the ditch, or shouted at the Crockan there be- 
yond the river. He had tried hints, insinuations; had 
been gentle, sympathetic, rough in the end and plain as 
a pikestaff: and all without avail. Nothing could touch 
the man. He was like wood. Something — trouble, or 
pain, or mortal sickness — had laid callous grip upon 
him, had blighted and left him joyless as a stricken 
tree. Had he feelings? Did he think? Did he 
know? Did he care for his children; had he fear for 
himself; did it matter to him a straw that Ellen his wife 
had gone elsewhere than for firing? Did he know; or 
was he ignorant; or had sickness numbed him; or was 
he only hiding behind this mask of indifference? The 
Master was puzzled. What was he to do, or say, or 
think? asked he of himself; and in answer found a great 
pity swell in his heart, rise and go out rushing towards 
that battered figure of a man. Pity? Oh, surely a dog 
must have given him that! 

Henry, Henry,” cried the Master, go home to 
your bed. Man, you’re not fit to be out. Go home 
and let Jinny give you something to eat, and get to your 
bed .... I’ll send you something. I’ll send for the 
doctor . . . .” 

Henry turned his eyes, slowly, almost contemptu- 
ously. 


THE HEED 


231 

I want no doctor/’ he said. There’s nothin’ ailin’ 
me, nothin’ but a bit of a cowld.” 

Well go home, then, to the fire,” pleaded the Mas- 
ter. Do, Henry, like a man.” 

‘‘ I’m goin’,” said Henry, and straightened his back, 
and pulled his hook from the clay, and stepped for his 
ditch; I’m goin’ when I’m finished. Yes.” 


II 

The Master left the ditch and took again to the road. 
Soberly he trudged along, nor lifted his eyes from the 
stones at his feet. The day kept good; wind sporting, 
clouds speeding gaily, the sun fiashing as he fell for the 
mountain; but in the day or its beauties the Master had 
no pleasure, had not even an eye, right or left across the 
willows, for the wide-spreading fields. Not often be- 
fore in broad day had he walked blindly from Kilfad 
garte to the Currach bridge; never before, maybe, walked 
in greater turmoil of heart. He felt anxious, distressed; 
a hand of gloom was between him and the sun; he had 
a sense of foreboding; always before him, there between 
the ruts at his feet, stood that weary figure of a man, 
that unfortunate of a Henry .... The poor life- 
crushed creature! Surely life was for him a pitiless 
burden; death the sweetest mercy he might implore. 
Death — death — death? Was it coming— coming quick 
with the gathering months? .... The unfortunate of 
a man! Something must be done for him; something 
for those helpless children, that weary drudge of a 


238 


lEISH PASTOKALS 


Jinny. Something — but what? Something — but how? 
Help might be given them, bread, clothing, fire; but 
who might save them from themselves, their fate, their 
shame? .... Oh, the hussy,’’ cried the Master with- 
in himself; the jade.” Why had he not long ago 
hunted her from the land, driven her out to seek her 
kind. She was a disgrace. The countryside reeked of 
the scandal of her doings. Her name was a by-word in 
the land, herself a pollution. And in his land? His! 
Oh, but this must end it, cried the Master, this day must 
end it all; then, in a fiare of indignation, rounded a 
bend of the road, faced Emo hill .... and there before 
him was the woman herself. And with her the man 
her companion. 

In a narrow red and blue cart, drawn by a jennet, they 
came slowly down; the man driving, the woman seated 
by him on a plank that stretched across from edge to 
edge of the sideboards. The woman wore a brown 
shawl, black dress, large straw bonnet with long strings 
and a single blue flower; her face was big, heavy, 
flushed, with a low forehead and thick loose lips. The 
man was dressed in tweed trousers and waistcoat, a blue 
coat, brown hat and faded black and white necktie; 
he had a bad face, square, lowering, with narrow eyes 
that gleamed viciously. Both sat crouched over their 
knees, heads and hands forward, their bodies swaying 
in and out as the cart jolted. They looked sullen, dissi- 
pated. Not a word passed between them. At sight of 
the Master coming uphill they sat upright; the woman 
with hands spread on her knees and lips a-quiver, the 
man plucking viciously at the reins and prodding the 


THE HEED 


239 


jennet with a stick. Gwan/’ he shouted, with a prod; 

gwan to blazes out o’ that.” 

The Master’s first impulse counselled his standing 
aside to let them pass; his second, born at closer sight 
of their faces, drove him to the middle of the road and 
left him standing there, legs spraddled, jaws set, thumbs 
hooked in the armholes of his waistcoat. 

Gwan,” shouted the man, with a slash and an oath; 

gwan to blazes out o’ that ” ; then, to the Master, Is 
it run over ye want to be? Stan’ aside, then, or be the 
holy I’ll level ye.” 

The Master stood firm; raised a hand. Stop,” he 
called. The cart came on. Stop,” shouted the Mas- 
ter; stop, I say.” 

The man glared at him; then rose to his feet, storming 
and cursing. 

Stop,” he roared; ye tell me to stop! Ye 
dare order me . . . .” The woman pulled at his 
coat-tails, crying him to be quiet. He turned upon her, 
his arm crooked as if to strike, his jaw set brutally. 

You — ^you — ” he shouted; then, turning suddenly, and 
with a storm of oaths, drew himself up and with all his 
strength smote the jennet twice across its back. The 
animal started, jumped; plunged forward. Just in 
time the Master sprang aside. Whirroo-whirroOy^ 
roared the man, with a skirl and a twirl; the woman 
cried, pleaded, caught at his arms; the cart swerved, 
went clattering down the hill, swaying this side, jolting 
that, missing destruction at times by inches: so whirled 
round the corner, into the plantation, and was gone. 

A while the Master stood on the wayside, rigid and 


240 


IRISH PASTORALS 


quiet, with eyes looking steadily downhill; then, a sud- 
den passion of anger rising within him, stepped out upon 
the road and went striding after the cart. 

That’s it,” he said; that’s it? Oh, I’ll show 
them. They dare — they dare — Oh, I’ll teach them 
.... Out she goes — out she goes if I have to clear 
the house. The hussy. The jade .... If I can only 
come upon them; if I can only find that scoundrel in the 
house,” cried the Master, and strode blindly between 
the willows. He was very wroth. His face was afiame, 
his hands hung clenched. To be scorned, insulted on 
his own roadway; spurned by carrion like that? Oh, 
he’d teach them a lesson for evermore .... 

He saw the cart turn in from the road and go clanking 
slowly across the rushy field, the woman still seated 
upon it, the man walking by the donkey’s head; saw it 
come to the trampled gap, saw the man fiounder and fall, 
rise and fall: and seeing that the Master’s anger cooled 
suddenly, and he stopped, bent his head and stood con- 
sidering. This was a foolish business, he told himself; 
he was only wasting good breath and anger in chasing 
the wind. The man was drunk; the woman was 
drunk; she had tried to restrain the fellow; clearly, 
thought the Master, he had done wisely had he 
stepped aside and let them pass. Their business 
was none of his; they were hopeless and shameless: 
let them go, let them go .... But what of 
Henry? Of the children? Of little Jinny at home? 
Think of that child there in the smoke, shivering 
and hungering, waiting for she knew not what. Think 
of her feelings when she saw her mother stumble 


THE HEED 


241 


in, saw who was with her, saw them sit there all the 
evening, drinking and singing, fighting and .... Oh, 
shame, shame, thought the Master; then passed the 
gateway, and went up the fields, and came to Henry the 
herd toiling patiently with his billhook on top of the 
hill. Not a moment did the Master waste. 

Look here, Henry,’’ said he, catching him by the 
shoulder; I told you to go home. Why haven’t you 
gone? Come! No more nonsense; but go. Take up 
your bundle, I say, and go. You hear me? ” said the 
Master, sternly and sharply. 

Henry turned slowly. His eyes held a gleam of won- 
derment. I do,” he answered. I do.” 

^^Well go, then. And look here.” The Master’s 
voice took a less peremptory tone. When you get 
home do your duty. You hear me? Be a man, I say, 
and do your duty. You hear me?” said the Master, 
and swayed Henry to and fro. 

I do,” came back; I do, sir.” 

Then off with you. There, take your bundle of 
sticks. And now your billhook — maybe you’ll want it 
at home. Come, come,” said the Master as Henry 
turned again on the hillside and stood gravely eyeing 
him beneath his hat brim; I want to see you moving.” 

But sure ” 

I want no more words. I want you to be a man. 
I want you to go home. Come,” ordered the Master; 
take your billhook and go.” 

And without a word Henry turned, gave his bundle 
a hoist, tucked his billhook under his arm; and went 
trudging downhill towards home. 


24:2 


IKISH PASTOKALS 


III 

That night went, and the next day, another came and 
brought no sign; it was in the evening of that third day, 
the pitiless scourge of the rain having at last gone fly- 
ing at burst of the sun, that the Master — now fallen 
somewhat anxious and curious not a little — turned once 
more from Emo gates and went down the Clackan road 
towards Kilfad. The road was deep. The hedges stood 
drenched and whipped upon the ditches, a diamond drop 
glistening on every thorn. Naked and gaunt rose the 
trees from rain-blanched flelds — flelds all sodden and 
dank, the grass upon them blue and beaten, the rushes 
drooping wearily. The hills shone, the valleys smoked 
in the sunshine, the lake glistened; over there, not a 
mile away you might think, stood the mountain, its 
face bright with a promise of coming rain. Rain? It 
was always raining, thought the Master. Spring? It 
was never coming — never. Look at the flelds, the road, 
the floods; see the horizon bursting with rain; look at the 
world lying there in the sun, drowned in the eternal 
deluge. Ah, it was weary and hopeless, thought the 
Master, heart-breaking and hopeless; so, that mood of 
gloom lying black upon him, went through the planta- 
tion, and between the willows, and across the rushy bot- 
tom, and down along the path that led to Jordan^s 
cottage. And as he went, down beneath the burden 
of his gloom, crept the haunting thought: What did 
Henry do? 

Nothing moved about the house; nothing but the 


THE HERD 


243 


smoke above the chimney and the fowls upon the street. 
The door was open; by the threshold stood a pot and 
basket; beneath the kitchen window Henry’s billhook 
lay rusting on the chopping block. The billhook! 
Hurriedly, and with something like dread on his heart, 
the Master scattered the chickens and strode for the 
door. 

Hullo. Anyone at home?” No answer. Henry 
— Henry. Are you there, Henry? ” Still no answer. 
The Master stepped to the doorway, stooped, peered 
through the smoke; saw, in a minute, Henry by the 
hearth and the children round him, and he feeding them 
from a pot with their supper of porridge and milk. 
And seeing him the Master was glad; and he understood, 
and drew back, and waited patiently by the doorway, 
listening to the clink of spoon and bowl and idly watch- 
ing the sky. Nor did the world seem altogether blank 
as he stood there, nor the spring altogether hopeless. 
Eor Henry’s deeds, said he within himself, had not been 
desperate. 

Presently the stools clattered back within, the chil- 
dren found their voices; across the floor Henry came 
clumping and issued from the smoke. He was bare- 
headed. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows. 
Neck and chest were bare. His trousers were strapped 
about his knees, his naked feet showed within his un- 
laced boots. There was an ugly cut upon his forehead; 
one eye was blacked ; his face, neck, chest were scratched 
and bruised. He looked flushed and hot; a little 
ashamed of his appearance. 

Well, Henry.” 


244 


lEISH PASTOKALS 


Good evenin’, sir.” 

It’s bad weather.” 

The very worst.” 

All well? ” 

‘‘ Ah, yes — iverything, thank God.” 

All this was pure trifling, beating for the hare. The 
Master turned. 

How are you^ Henry? ” 

Aw, the best.” Henry coughed. Sure I can’t 
complain.” 

Well you don’t look the best.” The Master eyed 
Henry’s face and neck. ‘‘ Has anything happened? ” 

Ah, no.” Henry paused. Ah, no,” he said 
again; sorrow a thing.” 

The Master stood looking towards Emo. Henry 
leant a shoulder against the doorpost and stood rubbing 
his chin. Neither spoke for a minute; then, said the 
Master: 

Is Ellen inside? ” 

She’s not.” 

Where is she? ” 

She’s gone — gone to see someone.” 

Henry was lying; and the Master knew it. Why was 
he lying? 

H’m. I know.” The Master paused. What did 
you do the other day, Henry, when I sent you home? ” 

^^Do?” Henry stared. Do,” said he. What 
would ye have me do? ” 

The Master looked narrowly at him; laughed; then 
stepped and brought the rusty billhook from the chop- 
ping block, 


THE HEED 


245 


Look here/’ said he; I sent you home with this 
and I told you to do your duty. Did you do it? ” Still 
Henry stared. Did you?” repeated the Master. 
What’s that? ” came back. Do what? ” 

Did you use this” — the Master raised the billhook 
— on the man you found in there? ” He nodded to- 
wards the doorway; waited a minute for Henry’s an- 
swer; turned and stood the billhook by the wall. You 
weren’t man enough to do it, Henry, I’m thinking,” he 
said; ^^no, you weren’t man enough.” 

Henry stood deep in thought, stolid, inscrutable as 
ever; then raised his eyes. 

Naw,” he said; naw, I wasn’t.” 

And why weren’t you, may I ask? ” 

Why? ” Again Henry pondered. Is it bloody 
murder you’d have me doin’ ? ” 

The Master could but laugh. It seemed all so ab- 
surd. Was the man knave or fool? He wheeled round 
and faced him. 

^^Look here, Henry,” said he; I don’t understand 
you. If you’re not playing with me you’re doing some- 
thing worse. Answer me this: Wasn’t there a man in- 
side there on Monday when you came home? Wasn’t 
there? ” 

There was.” 

And wasn’t Ellen there? ” 

She was.” 

^^And they had whisky — and were nearly drunk — and 
had just come from town? ” 

Ay .... Yes .... Mebbe so.” 

^^Well?” No answer. ^^Well, I say?” Still no 


246 


lEISH PASTOKALS 


answer. The Master stamped his foot. Come/^ said 
he, enough of this. You must speak. I want to 
know what happened, and what you did. Come, 
sir.’^ 

The words were masterful, not to be denied. Slowly 
Henry moved his shoulder from the doorpost; stepped 
upon the street; stood looking across the fields. The 
wind fiapped his fiimsy shirt, stirred his hair. In the 
clearer light his face and neck showed thick with bruises. 

What is it Fm to say? ’’ he asked, speaking slowly 
and plaintively and without turning his head. 

Just the truth. Just what you saw — what hap- 
pened.’^ 

I know.” Henry turned, walked along the street; 
stopped at the end of the house with his face towards 
Emo. It’s the childer,” he explained. They seen 
enough; an’ there’s no use in them bearin’ me.” He 
stood blinking in the sunshine for a minute; then, ab- 
ruptly and reluctantly, as one plunges when the water 
nips, began: 

When I got this far the jinnet an’ cart was standin’ 
there on the street. There was nobody with it an’ no 
one about. I put down me billhook there on the block, 
takes me bundle an’ goes in. Well, things were stirrin’. 
The childer were bleartin’ — Jinny was cryin’ — Black 
Hed was sittin’ be the fire smokin’ an’ shoutin’ at the 
childer — ^herself had her bonnet on her an’ was gettin’ 
tay. I takes no notice; but crosses an’ throws me bun- 
dle in the corner; pulls over a stool and sits down. 
’Twas all I could do. What could I do? Sure I was 
helpless. All I could manage was lift the child from 


THE HEED 


247 


the box an’ try to quiet it. An’ sure th’others got 
quiet too when they seen me, an’ Jinny came over an’ 
took a stool beside me. So things weren’t so bad — och, 
no. Only Ned was bleatherin’. He talked all kinds 
o’ nonsense. He fair raved at times . . . .” 

About me, Henry?” asked the Master. 

^^Aw, it was. ’Twas foolishness. Sure he’d been at 
the drink. No matter, anyway.” Henry pondered a 
while; moistened his lips; plunged again. Herself 
didn’t say much,” he said, speaking very deliberately 
and as one might speak with his face to the stars; she 
was — she was busy gettin’ tay. Ay. It was a big 
spread. I accuse Ned must ha’ bought it all, else — 
Ah, I accuse he must. There was bacon an’ eggs on the 
pan; there was lashins o’ tay; there was butter, an’ white 
bread, an’ a pot o’ jam on the table — aw, there was 
plenty of iverything, an’ all of the best . . . .” 

No whisky, Henry? ” 

^^Ah, to be sure — a whole bottle o’ John Jemison — a 
whole bottle. Ah, faith, I envied them that so I did.” 
Henry shook his head, smacked his lips; a wistful look 
gleamed in his eyes. He sighed; continued. Well, 
all bein’ ready they drew up an’ fell to on the bacon an’ 
eggs, an’ the tay, an’ the white bread . . . .” 

And the whisky, Henry? ” 

Ah, to be sure. Is it leave that? .... They 
set to, I’m tollin’ ye, like a pair o’ troopers; an’ 
them laughin’ all the time, an’ singin’ an odd time, an’ 
turnin’ now an’ then to fling a word at meself . . . .” 

^^And you endured that, Henry? ” 

^^Ah, to be sure.” Slowly Henry made answer, as 


248 


lEISH PASTORALS 


though he were speaking to the hedge, speaking of what 
hardly concerned him. To be sure. What could I 
do? ’Twas drink — Hwas drink. An’ weren’t there the 
childer, anyway, to be considered.” 

Yes — yes. And they gave you none of the feast, 
Henry? ” 

Not a morsel.” 

Nor the children? ” 

Not a taste — aw, not a taste. An’ sure I thought 
that hard, for the wee cratures needed it. Ay, they 
did .... Well, as I was tellin’ ye, they ate an’ drank 
an’ sampled the whisky, an’ had their divarsion; an’ after 
a while up Ned gets, an’ makes for the fire, an’ falls; an’ 
herself tries to help him up, an’ falls; an’ they begin to 
squabble, an’ the childer begins the cryin’, an’ Jinny 
catches howld o’ me; an’ there’s a powerful whillaloo — 
chairs an’ stools fiyin’, cans an’ pots tumblin’, the whole 
place in a ruction. Aw, ’twas a bad scene, so it was; 
’twas powerful bad. I niver seen a worse — ^niver in me 
born days . . . .” 

‘‘ They fought, Henry? ” 

Ay, like divils .... ’Twas the drink.” 

And you could do nothing? ” 

What could I do? What could I do but save the 
childer from murder .... ’Twas the drink.” 

^^And then they made friends, Henry? ” 

^^Ay. They did. They made it up an’ got quiet 
again; an’ after a while they went asleep, Ned lyin’ on 
the table, an’ herself wi’ her head on a chair. I was 
glad o’ that — sure I was — for the childer were hungry, 
the cratures, an’ tired, an’ dead wi’ the sleep. So Jinny 


THE HEED 


249 


an^ meself gives them a bite, an’ takes them up to the 
room, an’ puts them to bed, an’ stops wi’ them till they’re, 
asleep .... I was glad o’ that — yes, I was.” 

Henry stopped; drew his hand across his mouth; 
blinked slowly and gazed towards the Clackan hills. He 
looked starved and haggard in the broad light of 
evening. He turned to speak; hesitated; looked away. 
Patiently the Master waited, standing there with a smile 
playing on his lips and an incredulous look in his eyes. 
But Henry kept silent. Then said the Master : 

^^Well, Henry?” And again. Well, Henry?” 

Aw, that’s all — that’s about all.” 

Ho, Henry; there’s more yet. Come. Tell me.” 

Ah, it’s nothin’ .... ’Twas me own fault .... 
’Twas the drink.” Henry seemed questing for excuses. 

Ay, ’twas the drink,” he repeated, almost with satis- 
faction; ’twas the drink.” Again he paused. 

Go on, Henry. Finish.” 

^^Ay, Fm goin’ .... Well, we got the childer to 
bed an’ went back to the kitchen ” 

Jinny and you? ” 

Ay, the two of us. She wouldn’t leave me. We 
went back. Pm tellin’ ye, an’ sat down again be the fire. 
We had a bit to ate. Then I lit me pipe; an’ Jinny got 
out her needle an’ set herself to mendin’ the childer’s 
duds .... an’ there we sat an’ sat just waitin’ for 
somethin’ to happen . . . .” 

Just waiting for something to happen. The phrase 
was so quaint, so pathetic nearly, that the Master had to 
turn away and laugh. It was a choice between laugh- 
ing and crying. But Henry only paused a minute; 


250 


IKISH PASTOKALS 


coughed and went on, hurrying now as if to have 
done. 

^Twas like this/’ he said. ^^After an hour or two 
I got a bit sleepy an’ began noddin’ on me stool; an’ 
Jinny dozed a bit too; an’ like that we were sittin’ when 
all of a suddint Black Ned twists on the table in his 
sleep an’ comes down slap on the flure. ’Twas like the 
end of the world the noise he made. I jumped that 
high — an’ Jinny too — but it niver wakened herself, aw 
not a wake. Well, sir, Ned lay there for a while with- 
out movin’; an’ just as we were wonderin’ if he was 
killed, over he turns, scrambles to his knees, rises, rubs 
his eyes, looks round him, pulls out his pipe, lights it, 
an’ without word or sign makes for the dure an’ home 
. . . . An’ the heart rose in me at that — it did. For 
sure Ned’s a terror in the drink — an’ somehow I niver 
cared for him. Naw, I didn’t . . . .” 

Somehow I never cared for him. The Master turned 
and looked Henry hard in the eyes. Was the man 
knave or fool? Was he crazed, as some said, by sick- 
ness and trouble? Did he know? Or was he feigning 
ignorance ? 

Go on,” said the Master. 

^^Well, after that,” continued Henry, we barred 
the dure, an’ raked the fire, an’ Jinny went to bed. . . . 
an’ I goes over an’ lifts herself’s head off the chair an’ 
shakes her awake, an’ tells her to rise an’ come to her 
bed. An’ she rises an’ looks at me, an’ looks about her, 
an’ goes up to the room, an’ comes back, an’ says she: 
^ Where’s Ned? ’ ^ He’s gone home,’ says I. ^ Home,’ 

says she; ^ gone home? An’ what took him home?’ 


THE HEED 


251 


^ He went himself/ answers I; ^ he fell off the table, an’ 
got up, an’ went home of his own free will.’ ^ It’s a lie,’ 
shouts she, ^ it’s a lie ’; and wi’ that flies into the ojusest 
tantrum ye iver seen. Ah, ’twas terrible bad. Mver 
before did I see her in the like. Ye could hear her 
a mile. An’ there was the childer all awake an’ roarin’, 
an’ Jinny shiverin’ be the dresser — an’ herself ravin’, 
an’ cursin’, an’ accusin’ me o’ sendin’ Black Ned 
home .... Ah, sirs, but drink’s the curse. She 
went fair mad .... An’ at last she fell on meself, she 
came at me like a tiger an’ hit me, an’ tore me, an’ — an’ 
. . . .” Henry paused; shook his head. ’Twas a sore 
case,” he said; ’twas a sore case.” 

What could the Master think? Seldom had he been 
in such perplexity. He could not fathom this puzzle 
of a man, could not decide whether he were deep or 
shallow, knave or fool. Did he know? Was he shield- 
ing her, hiding her sins beneath her faults, cloaking her 
enormities with his own weakness? Did he know? 
Was he telling truth? Was he guarding his tongue? 
Was he saying all he knew, or only all he chose to know, 
or merely all he was able to know? 

^^Well,” said the Master. ^^Well, and what then, 
Henry? ” 

^^Aw, she got tired at last,” came back; got 
tired at last — an’ then she up, an’ puts on her 
bonnet, an’ goes out, an’ slams the dure, an’ leaves 
us there.” 

Yes? ” The Master was watching Henry between 
half closed eyelids. Yes? ” he said again. 

That’s— that’s all.” 


252 


IKISH PASTOEALS 


^^All? All!’’ The Master shouted the word. 

But where did she go to ? ” 

I dunno.” Very deliberately Henry answered, his 
eyes steady on the distant hills. 

You don’t know! .... And you haven’t heard 
from her? Haven’t tried to find her? ” 

Naw. Sure she’ll come back herself; she’ll be 
sorry an’ come back.” 

What could the Master think, or say, or do? He 
laid a hand on the man’s arm. 

Henry,” he said; answer me truthfully. Do you 
know where she’s gone to? ” 

Henry considered. 

Naw,” he answered, I wouldn’t be sure. Mebbe 
it’s to the brother’s she’s gone; mebbe it’s to the cousin’s 
beyond in Gorteen. But what matter, anyhow. Sure 
she’ll come back — she’ll come back.” 

What could the Master think? Was the man speak- 
ing truth? Was he saying all he knew, or only all 
he chose to know? Was he lying to save her, to save 
the children, to . . . .? Ah, what matter, what mat- 
ter! Nothing mattered in sight of the look of truth 
and innocence that lived on that haggard face. 

You think she will, Henry? ” said the Master, his 
voice softening strangely. You think so?” 

Think? ” Henry’s face flashed round. To be 
sure I do. Arrah, why not? What’d keep her 
away?” His voice swelled harshly; he stood flushed 
— roused at last. “ Sure ’twas only the drink an’ a 
fit of temper. To be sure she’ll come back, an’ the 
childer here waitin’ for her— an’ the house waitin’ — 


THE HEED 


253 


an’ Jinny — an’ . . . ffis voice softened; hesi- 
tated; drawled out. 

Yourself, Henry? ” 

^^Ay. Aw, ay. What’s left o’ meself.” 

Henry turned; walked out among the rushes and stood 
looking across the lake. Over there in Gorteen dwelt 
his wife’s cousin, there too her brother; across there in 
Lackan, above on the hillside, dwelt the man — poacher, 
gaol-bird, blackguard — whose nickname was Black 
Ned. But it was always towards Gorteen that Henry 
looked — always and unflinchingly. Ay,” he said, 
and shaded his eyes, and looked steadily across the lake 
towards Gorteen ; what’s left o’ meself. Aw, to be 
sure she’ll come back to us — to be sure . . . .” 

The Master dared not speak. He turned away and 
set out for home. And as he went, somehow life 
seemed bright with hope, the spring near and certain: 
and always, as he walked, had he clear vision of that 
battered flgure standing there among the rushes, shad- 
ing his eyes and watching for her who was sure to come. 





























SPOTTY 



















I 


S LOWLY the Master trudged over the fields, 
hands clasped behind him, shoulders drooping 
a little, eyes peering keenly across the slopes, 
his waistcoat fiapping open, shirt sleeves rolled high, 
hat cocked upon his crown; went on down from Emo 
across the rushy fiats, counted the sheep upon the Long 
hill, the horses standing by Hick’s wall, the cattle lying 
upon the river slope, then caught thumbs in armholes, 
went up the Crockan slope, and coming to its crest 
there sprawled upon the grass and looked out upon the 
land. 

A Sabbath morning in July it was; and broad and pure 
as the golden dowry of sunshine lay everywhere the sol- 
emn peace of the Lord. Hardly a sound was there — 
hardly one. The cattle were resting, the sheep nib- 
bling; the dogs asleep by silent thresholds; even 
the birds had fallen silent, and the wind that came 
steadily along the river valley only languished among 
the leaves. Abroad too upon the hills nothing stirred 
between the hedges, not a swallow across the brown- 
tipped rushes, not a figure before the whitewashed cot- 
tages or along the dusty road; the land seemed gone 
asleep in the heat beneath the radiant sky. Yet life 
was there in plenty, life slumbering in its Sabbath garb 
of summer; and nearer, right and left of the Master, 
Thrasna river came and went along its valley, a very 
^57 


258 


IRISH PASTORALS 


thing of life, flashing and dancing between the hills, 
along and away. The wind ruffled its face, the sun 
smote it and glowed within it like Are; here the current 
went swirling, there a flsh flashed out and fell; on the 
island below Thady’s cottage a goat stood browsing, 
further down Wee James sat Ashing drowsily in a coat: 
then round past the big meadow it swept and was lost 
among the hills. But it lived — ^it lived that Sabbath 
morning ! 

For long enough the Master sprawled upon the 
Crockan-head, just leaning upon an elbow and looking 
here and there. He felt contented, glad to be alive, 
thankful to God for His mercies; it was well to be there 
in the sun, to look up at the sky and out across the pleas- 
ant flelds — his own flelds, his very own. He was at 
peace with the world that morning, reconciled to life and 
its drudgery, satisfled for once to be himself and none 
other in the world. His own land, cattle, sheep — lord 
of all that wide prospect — a king surveying his domin- 
ions: could mortal wish for more? He could smell the 
earth and the grass as he lay; could pick out one crop 
from another as they spread beyond in the valley; could 
tell his sheep by name, knew the face of every beast 
upon the slope better than he knew the face of a friend. 
Lovingly, thoughtfully his eyes roved from back to 
back across the herd, valuing, criticising, calculating, 
his brow puckered, lips pushed out, his head wagging 
softly in rhythm with thought. They were doing well, 
he spoke to himself, growing fast into solid money; 
within three months they would be worth .... And 
then, right across the every day flow of calculation, like 


SPOTTY 


259 


a flash from the deep peace of that Sabbath morning, 
shot swift memory of the words, For every heast of the 
forest is mine and the cattle upon a thousand hills; and 
the Master turned away his eyes and chid himself in his 
heart. 

In a while he rose, slowly went down the Crockan, 
out upon the hill and along the slope ; presently stopped 
short among the rushes and stood looking fixedly at a 
spotted heifer which lay by herself at skirts of the herd. 
A fine full-grown beast she was with curled horns, and 
a coat of silken fineness; but now her head had fallen 
and her jaw was quiet; and seeing that, the Master stood 
among the rushes in a world gone gloomy as death, a 
world that held for him nor sun nor Sabbath. Another? 
And Spotty now! 

He strode towards her; and at sound of his foot Spotty 
looked round, turned upon her knees and rose. Behind 
was a sudden commotion among the herd, a sound of 
rising, of stretching, of blowing and licking; but never 
a sound from Spotty; no arching of the back or slow 
straining of the muscles, no twist of the head and 
soft low of content in sight of the Master. List- 
less she stood, ears drooping, head lowered, her 
great soft eyes looking piteously forth, big with a 
dumb message of suffering. Something is wrong, 
they seemed so say, something strange has come to me; 
and so far Spotty spoke clearly and the Master read dis- 
tinctly — so far and no farther. What is it? questioned 
the Master, and groped with fingers and eyes and brain; 
what is it Spotty, lass? And the answer was tragic 
silence; unutterable knowledge in the eye of the beast, 


260 


mSH PASTORALS 


maddening ignorance in that of tlie human. If you 
only knew; if I could only tell you, said Spotty’s eyes; 
If I only knew, if you could only tell me, said the Master 
within himself; then sighed heavily, clasped hands 
behind him and slowly went driving Spotty up towards 
Emo. 

Another? The Master tightened his lips. What is 
it? said he. What ails her; what ails her? And for 
answer Spotty trudged slowly on, resignedly and listless- 
ly, as might one who went uncaring to meet death; 
never turning her head, or quickening a step, or lifting 
an ear at sound of the farewell lowing that came softly 
up from the river, never turning an eye even upon the 
dainties of pasture that lay scattered along her path. 

Did she know? Did she understand? 


II 

The two crossed the hill, went along the flat, up to 
Emo, and coming to the yard turned through the door- 
way of an empty loose-box. It was cool in there and 
somewhat dim, the roof high, a window looking towards 
the haggard, the floor deep in clean oaten straw that 
rustled crisply beneath the foot and filled the place with 
wholesomeness. And knee deep in the straw stood 
Spotty, with the Master watching her as he leant against 
the wall. 

For once in a way the Master was perplexed. That 
Spotty was sick he knew without doubt; but the nature 
of her sickness he could not determine. Often enough — 


SPOTTY 


261 


too often, God knows — tie Had stood there watching and 
judging, but never so blindly as to-day. Always before 
there had been something to clutch at, some major 
symptom that gave a clue; now there was nothing, 
nothing but plain signs of some desperate malady, of 
some new terror in the land. What was it? As if there 
had not been enough before; as if the old horrors were 
not far too much! What was it? cried the Master to 
himself again; then, groaning aloud, trod across the 
straw and tried for the divination of his hands. 

Poor Spotty,’’ he said; poor old girl ”; so, scratch- 
ing and rubbing, pulling and probing, stooping to look 
at her muzzle, counting the beats in the great vein of 
her neck, seeking for this sign or that, watching this 
symptom or the other, patiently the Master groped for 
light. And quite in vain. The case was beyond him. 
This thing he knew, and that had heard of; but this — 
and this — and this? No. The case was beyond him. 
Of one thing only was he certain, that there stood 
Spotty in the straw, stricken desperately of some new 
thing. Ah, those eyes, the great patience and pathos 
of them, the dumb tragic mystery! If I only TcneWy 
cried the Master; if I only hnew: so, groaning and cry- 
ing within him, went out and closed the door. 

Beard on breast and his forehead wrinkled, he crossed 
the yard — crossed it as might one struck blind in the 
sunlight — went through the kitchen, up into the par- 
lour, took his Cattle Doctor from a shelf, sank into an 
elbow-chair and fell to rummaging the book. A tattered 
volume it was, backless, dog-eared, soiled with thumbs 
and ugly medicine stains; one of the two or three books 


262 


lEISH PASTOEALS 


that the Master had ever read, one that he knew by heart 
and now sat pondering, seeking there the inspiration 
of counsel that a man hungers for in the face of a friend. 
There was nothing of use in it, nothing he did not know ; 
still — still — somewhere might lurk a golden sentence, 
an unthumbed page, a word or two of magic import, 
something — something .... 

Bah! It was folly, waste of time; every minute 
lost now was infinitely precious. He flung down the 
book, rose briskly and went to the kitchen, took down 
the physic-bottle (an ordinary quart bottle it was, with a 
long neck) and physic-tins from a shelf, mixed and diluted 
a dose, tied on a coarse apron, and ordering the servant 
to follow him, went out with the bottle in his hand. 

Half-way across the yard he raised his head and saw 
Wee James standing by the loose-box door. Ha, 
James — it’s you?” he said, with a nod; then, having 
sent back the servant, walked on; stopped; looked up. 

This is a bad business, J ames,” said he, with his hand 
on the latch. 

'' Is it Spotty, sir? ” 

^^Ay. It’s Spotty. When did you see her last? ” 

I went round them this mornin’. There was nothin’ 
noticeable then. Sure it gave me a turn to see ye drivin’ 
her up the hill.” James’ voice came plaintive, his 
face was solemn ; like one come to seek news of a sick 
relative he looked and spoke. But sure,” he broke 
off, sure mebbe it’s nothin’ at all? ” 

It’s something bad, J ames — ^very bad.” 

Ah, nonsense. Arrah, whisht. Is it Spotty! 

. . . . An’ what has come to her? ” 


SPOTTY 


263 


The Master slipped the latch. Come and see.’^ 
And the two went in. 

Just in the same place, knee deep in the straw, Spotty 
was standing, her head to the window, eyes fixed steadily 
on the walls. Not a move, not a sound, she made; but 
her breathing came quick and heavy. The Master 
crossed, leant against a hayrack and stood watching 
her; James, his head forward, cap thrust back, hands 
behind him, went up and down, round and round her, 
a straw in his mouth and his lips puckered. Mighty 
knowing looked James; his shoulders drooped as beneath 
the wisdom of ages; his eyes roved Spotty from hoof 
to horn with an intensity of vision that was almost 
piercing; he stooped, listened, peered, groped and felt 
and pulled: at last, stopped near the Master, pondered 
a minute, slowly turned. Would it be inferma- 
tion ? said he, with a cock of his head. 

The Master’s eyes twinkled. No, James,” he an- 
swered; it wouldn’t.” 

Once more J ames turned to his task of cogita- 
tion; once more paced round and round, stepping 
high and somewhat absurdly (just as a turkey steps 
across stubble) over the straw; then stopped and turned 
again. It wouldn’t be a kind of a plurisy^ now? ” he 
asked, with a cunning leer of the eye. 

The Master shook his head. No, James. It’s 
hardly that.” 

James caught chin between thumb and fore- 
finger, wrinkled his brow, looked hard at the straw. 

Sure it wouldn’t be a murreUy or — or ? ” 

No, James.” ' 


264 


IRISH PASTORALS 


Nor a chill she’d be catchin’, or a surfeit, or — or 
somethin’ ? ” 

It’s something.” The Master moved from the wall. 

It’s surely something.” 

^^An’ bad? ” James dropped his questions gently, 
almost sighingly, between thumb and forefinger. An’ 
bad? ” he murmured. 

She’s very bad.” The Master shook the physic- 
bottle, took off his hat and hung it on a harness peg. 
^^An’ she’ll be worse,” he said; much worse.” 

‘^An’ ye wouldn’t be guessin’, now, yourself, what’s 
come to her — or how it came — or what you’ll be 
doin’ — ? ” Something crossed letween James and the 
light. He ceased droning, looked up; then, without a 
word, stepped round Spotty and took her by the horns. 

Have ye’ light? ” asked he, pulling at the horns. 

Have ye, or will I bring her head round to the dure? ” 

Let her be,” said the Master; and within a minute 
Spotty’s head was back, the bottle-neck across her 
tongue and the physic gurgling down — down to the last 
bitter drop. 

She took the infliction well, stoically and passively: 
gave just a terrified plunge; then stood snorting, her legs 
rigid and spread, her eyes big and startled; then let drop 
her head, twitched her dripping muzzle, rolled her 
tongue, blinked slowly, turned towards the Master and 
mooed (yes; easily you might think so) her thanks. 
Moo, she said just once; then drew in her legs, fixed her 
eyes on the walls, and so patiently stood waiting. 

Wee James stepped round (slowly and absurdly like 
a jester at a funeral) through the straw, caught thumbs 


SPOTTY 


265 


in the armholes of his waistcoat and stood as if peer- 
ing between the red and white spots into the mystery of 
Spotty’s interior. D’ye think it’ll do anythin’?” he 
asked in a minute, slowly and solemnly, with a half 
turn of the head. 

It might,” said the Master. He wiped his hands 
in the apron, took his hat from the rack, moved for the 
door. It might,” he said, with a wag of his beard. 
‘‘ Anyway, we’ll know more in a couple of hours. 
Keep an eye on the rest,” he said; then, having called 
Mary for apron and bottle, left James, crossed the yard 
and stood watching the Mother and the boys come down 
the avenue in the taxcart on their way from Church. 
All gay and merry they came; but at sight of the Mas- 
ter’s face their eyes sobered. 

^^What is it?” called Hal, as the car drew up. 

What’s wrong now.” The Master stood silent, look- 
ing critically, you might think, at the grey mare’s legs. 

What is it. Father? ” shouted Hal. Ah, tell us, can’t 
ye?” 

The Master looked up, straight and only for a mo- 
ment — ah, but such a moment — into the Mother’s eyes; 
then turned to Hal. ^^Another,” said he. 

^^Another?” It came in a chorus, from all but the 
Mother. ^^An’ what? ” 

Spotty.” The Master stepped to the grey mare’s 
side and stood patting her neck. 

Spotty? .... Spotty? .... Spotty! ” 

A wave of subdued emotion, of inarticulate dismay, 
gathered and hung toppling over the car. The Mother 
sat quite still, looking out across the garden with mourn- 


266 


IKISH PASTOKALS 


ful eyes; the boys, Hal with reins and whip, Ted and 
Jem twisting round across the seat-back, sat rigid in 
their places, their young faces strangely shadowed be- 
neath that toppling crest, their eyes full of pity — the 
Mother’s reflected pity — for the Master. Another? 
And Spotty now? And he had to bear it all! 

So for maybe a minute it was; then, the mare moved, 
the wave broke, down jumped the boys and went hurry- 
ing for the loose-box: there to probe and chatter round 
that unfortunate of a Spotty. 

The Master let them chatter. It was youth’s way. 
They knew nothing, but could do no harm. He helped 
the Mother down, took mare and car to the stables ; then, 
by way of passing the half-hour which lay before din- 
ner-time, strolled through the haggard, put shoulder to 
a post of the hayshed and there stood pondering, with 
his eyes on the patch of ground that lay at his feet — the 
mounded resting-place of all the others. 

All? How many now? And how many to-morrow? 
. . . . Why was fate so cruel? Ah, why was the hand 
of God so heavy upon him? It was hard to bear; it was 
hard to bear! 


Ill 

In those parts bad news goes over the hedges like an 
east wind; and by two o’clock all the world knew that 
another was took in Emo, took with some kind of a mor- 
tial curious complaint, that, as Wee James put it, would 
puzzle the head off ye. So all that golden afternoon you 


SPOTTY 


267 


might have thought an earl lay sick in the big house, 
so many were the callers, and so anxious were their en- 
quiries, and so solemn their mien. Down the lane they 
came, in couples, in singles, hands under Sabbath coat- 
tails, hats slouched over downcast eyes; and into the 
loose-box they went, and circled through the straw, and 
groped, and pondered, and looked mighty wise, and gave 
their opinions, their advice, their sympathy; went off 
shaking their heads at last and leaving the crature to the 
care of God. Sure it’s powerful strange,” they would 
say, tramping out into the sunshine, what’d be ailin’ 
her. Ay, it is, it is. An’ sure may God spare her to 
ye, sur, for it’s trouble enough you’d be havin’ already.” 
And the Master would nod his thanks, and turn again 
to that patient figure standing in the straw. 

About four o’clock a group of four — the Master, Hal, 
Wee James, and Henry from Kilfad — were discussing 
questions of physic and treatment near the door, when 
across the yard came Annie the wife of James, a child 
at her tail and a baby on her arm. Can I see her? ” 
she said; and the Master nodding assent, Annie went in 
to Spotty, her heart big with a message of pity and 
sympathy. ‘‘ Ah, poor Spotty,” she murmured, and 
slowly went over the straw with outstretched hand; ah, 
poor ould woman, poor ould Spotty. Trish^ trish, now 
— trishy trish,^^ Coming quite close, she fell to scratch- 
ing the heifer’s back, and crooning plaintively: all at 
once stopped, stood listening a minute, then turned 
quickly for the door. Ah,” she cried, the crature — 
the crature! Listen — my God, listen to it! ” 

The group broke, wheeled, came towards the door. 


268 


lEISH PASTOEALS 


What is it?’^ went the voices. WKat is it, 
Annie? ” 

^^Her heart,’’ cried Annie; her heart. Listen — 
listen! ” She paused in the doorway, her head turned, 
hand raised, eyes kindled and staring. Hush,” she 
said. The men, craning eagerly across the threshold, 
fell silent. Hush. D’ye hear it? My God, d’ye 
hear it? Whisht .... Whisht . . . .” 

Annie’s whisper died out. The men held their 
breath. Dead silence fell. Then, quite distinctly 
across the straw, very quick and marked, like the beat 
of a piston, came the muffled thud of Spotty’s heart. 

D’ye hear it?” cried Annie. Aw, Lord, Lord!” 
And with a shivering sob she fled across the yard. 

It was indeed a terrifying, almost an uncanny, sound 
that came with such horrible distinctness out of the 
silence and the gloom, telling of such agony of suffering, 
such supremacy of endurance; and hearing it, the men 
drew sharp breaths between their teeth and looked in 
each other’s eyes, and the Master, stricken with horror 
of the thing and the thought of his own helplessness, 
lost grip of himself and burst into sudden frenzy of 
panic. 

I’ll lose her; I’ll lose her She’s dyin’; she’s 

dyin’ My God, what is it? What can I do — 

what can I do? ” He turned to the door, imperious and 
wrathful. Here, come out the lot of you — come out 
an’ leave her to myself. D’ye want to stifle her? Out 
o’ my way; out o’ my way! ” 

The men hurried forth; the Master strode in, stayed 
a minute and came back. His face flared, his eyes 


SPOTTY 


269 


blazed; himself and his voice seemed to fill the place 
with commotion. What are ye all standing there 
for?^^ he shouted. Can’t ye be doing something? 
Out o’ my way; out o’ my way! ” 

He hurried towards the house, carrying noise with 
him and bustle: stopped short: hurried on: stopped once 
more and turned. Here, Hal ” — his voice came tense 
and hard — ‘‘ take the mare and go for Reilly the vet. 
Tell him what you can. Tell him to bring physic. And 
don’t delay.” 

Hal ran; the Master’s voice rang into the house, 
resonant as a trumpet-call. Here, Ted — Ted — Ted. 
Come; stir yourself, sir! Saddle the Paddy horse and 
ride your best to Gorteen for Micky the cow-doctor. 
Tell him I want him. Tell him to come at once. Ride 
—ride! ” 

Ted ran for the stables. From the back-yard came 
a sound of stamping hooves, of shouting and jingling. 
Cocks were crowing, pigs squealing. In the kitchen 
Annie’s baby was crying. Back near the gateway Wee 
James and Henry the herd stood mum as posts. Like 
a musket shot rang out the Master’s voice : Go and 
help them, ye fools ! ” and the two turned in a panic. 

Now then, quick there with those horses. D’you 
want to be all night? Quick — quick! ” Out came Ted 
with the Paddy horse; behind came Hal with the mare 
and car. Off you go, Ted. Come; jump up, Hal, 
jump up! ” Ted sprang into the saddle; Hal clambered 
into the car: a whirl, a shout, a clatter: and once more 
peace and the sunshine held sway in the land. 

For a while the Master stood looking towards the 


270 


lEISH PASTORALS 


road; then, a foot sounding behind him, turned and saw 
the Mother crossing the yard. Their eyes met; together 
they went over the stones, going slowly and silently, 
went in to Spotty, and side by side took their places 
before her close to the hayrack. She had not moved. 
Stolidly, patiently, she stood in the straw, head down 
and her eyes fixed on the walls. You might have thought 
her asleep ; you might have thought her not changed for 
the worse; only, she moaned softly at intervals, and 
shook to and fro, and clearly, horribly, her heart-pulse 
thumped in time with the vibration. 

The Master groaned and leant against the wall; the 
Mother stood with folded hands, looking and listening. 
She knew what pain was. She had borne it often. She 
was bearing it now — only like Spotty she kept pain 
silent. 

She’ll die,” said the Master; she’ll die surely. I 
never saw a beast like that before. Look at her — listen 
to it! It’s terrible. Why, her heart must be nearly 
bursting. It’s — it’s terrible! ” 

The Mother crossed, laid a hand on Spotty’s neck 
and softly began rubbing and patting. Poor woman,” 
she murmured — almost tearfully, you might say, and 
just as though the dumb beast were human; poor 
Spotty. And what ails you? What ails you. Spotty, 
at all? ” 

I might have known,” said the Master; I might 
have known that something was going to happen. Why 
should I waken up in the night and go to the window 
as I did; and why should I see all the cattle lying 
beyond the gate and only one of them with its head up? 


SPOTTY 


271 


That must have been Spotty — it must have been. She 
was lying by herself, and she was looking towards the 
river — looking you might think for the sun to rise. And 
something told me to go out — but it was only twilight — 
and they were all there — and I didn’t. I didn’t. 
And now — ! ” 

The Mother came back to the wall, turned and folded 
her hands again. Her lips were firm; but you might 
have thought her eyes held tears. What is it? ” she 
said, in a while. 

God knows.” 

Ay. God knows .... And it’s God will.” 

The Master dared not answer. God’s will seemed 
inscrutable at times. He kept back speech, but his eyes 
gleamed rebelliously. Why should God smite the beasts 
of the field; the beasts of his fields? And why should 
he smite the best of the flock, and smite her so cruelly? 
Listen .... Listen! 

Can you do nothing? ” said the Mother. 

I’ve done all I can. I’ve sent for help. I don’t 
know what to do.” 

^^And — and — ” The Mother turned quickly. 

Do you think we’ll lose her? ” 

The Master paused, groping within himself. God 
knows,” answered he at last. God knows.” 

What better might he answer, even concerning a 
beast of the field? 


272 


lEISH PASTOKALS 


IV 

Keilly the vet stepped down from the car, nodded 
to the Master and turned to Hal for his carpet-bag. 
He was a tall dark man, lean and wiry, sharp featured 
and sallow, his nose long and drooping, his eyes black 
and cunning, lips very thin, face very hard. He wore 
a brown suit of tweeds, a green necktie and a slouched 
hat. Across his waistcoat gleamad a plated chain; on 
a dirty finger was a sham ring; from a pocket peeped the 
shank of a clay pipe. Some said he was a qualified sur- 
geon, many called him no less than a quack. This was 
his first call to Emo, and his reputation there was yet 
to make. 

He took his carpet-bag (the professional kit it was) 
from Hal and came to the Master. Good evenin’ to 
yourself? ” he said, putting out his hand. ‘‘ Well, here 
I am. Where’s the baste? Aw, bedad, but it’s the fine 
evenin’, now,” he continued, as they crossed the yard, 
his thin, bloodless voice coming shrill and sharp, an’ 
it’s the fine place you’ll have here, God prosper it. Ay 
.... So here we are, then — an’ this is her ladyship, 
is it? Ay, now. Ay, now.” 

Leaving his bag in a corner by the door,Mr.Eeilly put 
hands under coat-tails, cocked his head towards Spotty 
and for a minute stood looking at her; then, crossed the 
straw, slapped her smartly on the back and clicked his 
tongue. Gar up,” said he, with a snap. Gar up wi’ 
ye.” Spotty jerked her head, arched her back, shrank 
from the blow and moved a step forward. Gar up,” 


SPOTTY 


273 


said Keilly again; then, following Spotty up with a hand 
sliding along her back, began his examination. 

His hand was heavy, his touch clumsy, his methods 
rough and coarse, his voice and manner heartless. 
Clearly, he saw in Spotty only a brute beast, so much 
potential human food, something that if kicking would 
cure he would as lief kick as physic. For herself he 
had no thought of pity, with her suffeiings only a pro- 
fessional sympathy. If he wanted her to move he kicked 
her leg, to turn he slapped her side ; he twisted her tail, 
tugged at her teats, sent her moaning up and down, 
shrinking when he touched her, blinking with a piteous 
throw of the head when he passed her eyes. And 
Spotty endured it; and the Master, standing with folded 
arms against the wall, endured it also. 

In a while the man turned, hooked thumbs in arm- 
holes, twisted eyes upon the Master and spoke. An’ 
how have ye been treatin’ her? ” he asked, contempt and 
insolence quick in his voice. 

Curtly the Master made answer. 

^^Ay. I know.” With a sneer the man turned, 
pulled off his coat and hung it on a peg. Well, it’s 
God’s doin’ ye haven’t killed her .... You’ve got a 
physic-bottle I suppose? Ay. Well, I’d be the better 
of it. An’ a can o’ water’d do no harm. An’ one o’ 
them sons o’ yours might try his hand at holdin’ 
her head . . . .” 

Then you think you know what’s the matter? ” said 
the Master, stopping on his way to the door. 

I niver think — when I’m sure. Away now like a 
man for that water.” 


274 


lEISH PASTOKALS 


Water was brought, and the bottle; in a corner, over 
his carpet-bag, Mr. Reilly mixed a dose; Hal came to 
hold Spotty^s horns, and Ted to stand by her tail: and 
all was noise and confusion. 

Gar up,’’ shouted the man. Bring round her 
head, can’t ye, to the light .... Stan’ close, you 
there, an’ keep her from backin’. Here, yourself, 
hold that bottle.” He flung his hat upon the straw, 
rolled up his sleeves, came edging nearer with the bottle 
in his hand. Gar up ... . Pwff there — pwjf now 
— gar up ... . Round wi’ her head — up wi’ it . . . . 
Ah, dang ye, hold her firm! Now — now . . . . 
What! You’ll not open your jaw, won’t ye? Ye won’t, 
won’t ye? You’ll try to bate me, will ye? ... . 
Whisht. Ho, I’ve got ye, me girl; I’ve got ye! 
There’s somethin’ ’ll cool the heart in ye ... . Let 
her go, boys. Gar up there .... An’ now leave 
her to git a grip o’ that, an’ we’ll be steppin’ across for 
a sup o’ tay.” 

Crossing the yard, Mr. Reilly flung off his profes- 
sional airs, took to himself a beaming manner and went 
into the parlour swaggering the gentleman. He put his 
hat under his chair, spread a red pocket handkerchief 
on a knee, sat down at a genteel distance from the table 
and began to talk. He spoke of many things — not of 
Spotty, or of things so trifling as she, but of fairs, of 
physics, of the diseases of cattle, of sundry interesting 
operations that he himself had witnessed and performed 
— and spoke glibly, not with any vulgar show of vain 
boasting, yet with an agreeable and modest tribute of 
personal allusion. You could not call him dogmatic, but 


SPOTTY 


275 


he had a manly confidence in himself and his opinions. 
He did not shout, but his laughter made jingle the china. 
When tea came to him he said, Thank ye kindly, 
ma’am,’’ spilled it into his saucer and gulped it. Scorn- 
ing a plate he leant an elbow upon it and ate bread and 
butter from his hand. This’ll be prime butter o’ 
yours, ma’am,” he said, and to show his appreciation 
thereof spread it upon cake. Asked to have a fifth cup 
he raised protesting hands Hot another drop, ma’am, 
if ye plase — for it’s full I’ll be. But, savin’ your pres- 
ence, I’ll take a draw.” And tilting back his chair 
against the wall, Mr. Reilly began to smoke. But the 
Mother saved her presence — for the dumb beast of a 
Spotty. 

For a full hour he sat handing his credentials from 
chair to chair; then rose, pulled down his waistcoat and 
went out to view the sky. Ah, but it’s the lovely 
evenin’,” said he upon the door-step. How, but the 
mountain looks beautiful .... Come away round wi’ 
ye till we have a look at her ladyship,” he said at 
last. Troth, an’ it’s meself’d laugh to see her chewin’ 
her cud.” 

But, for once in a way, Mr. Reilly had to restrain his 
laughter; for her ladyship stood in the straw unmistaka- 
bly worse. She looked weaker; her head was lower; her 
eyes seemed covered with a sickly film; her breath came 
quicker; every now and again she moaned, gave a 
shrinking shiver, looked slowly round at her heaving 
sides — looked, you might think, in search of the pain. 
And always her heart beat out its pitiful story. 

Mr. Reilly pursed his lips, set his head, looked his 


276 


lEISH PASTOKALS 


knowingest; turned at last in a flurry and flung off liis 
coat. 

Bring out a chair/^ lie shouted, bring out a basin. 
Tell them to come to me. It’s Weedin’ she wants.” He 
took from his carpet-bag a brass handled fleam, opened a 
blade and tried its edge with his thumb. Hurry, 
hurry,” he shouted, dancing towards the Master. Man 
alive, stir yourself .... Is it have me lose the baste 
ye would? Bring a basin quick, I tell ye .... Look at 
her. Don’t let her down — for God’s sake, don’t let her 
down,” shouted the man and, even as Spotty doubled 
her knees and sank moaning in the straw, rushed over 
and began pulling at her tail. She mustn’t lie,” he 
shouted; she mustn’t lie. Gar up.” He kicked bru- 
tally at her buttocks. Gar up — gar up, ye divil! ” 

Then the Master crossed, took him by the shoulders 
and sent him spinning against the wall. Get back, 
you brute! ” The Master was hoarse with anger, his 
eyes flashed red murder. Get out o’ my sight,” he 
shouted, you ignorant brute! You a cattle doctor — 
you a Christian! Get out, I say; get out o’ my sight. 
Here, take your trumpery.” Out went the carpet-bag, 
the coat, the fleam, into the yard; out came the Master 
raging and flaring. You’d murder my beast — you’d 
kick her to death — you’d torture the life out of her! 
I’m sick of the sight of you. Get out; get out! ” 

As a beggar flies before a bulldog, so went Keilly the 
vet before the Master; then, coming to the road, 
mounted the ditch and over the hedge poured upon Emo 
a deluge of profanity. But only Tim the dog gave heed 
or answer. 


SPOTTY 


277 


V 

It had fallen dusk when Micky came, jogging soberly 
into the yard on an old white pony, his long coat of 
frieze hanging down to the stirrups, a beaver hat on his 
crown, a short pipe in his mouth. Fm late,^^ said he, 
and clambered stiffly down; I^m late — but I done me 
best. Am I too late?’’ he asked, taking the Master’s 
hand. 'No. Well, thank God for that! Come away 
till I see her; come away.” 

He was an old man, very tall and bony, somewhat 
stooped and lame of a leg. His face was big and square 
and grizzled and wrinkled; his lips were clean cut and 
firm, his brow broad over piercing grey eyes — the eyes 
of the diviner. He looked into you, holding your hand 
and speaking not a word; read you to the heart and 
hobbled way. Everyone respected him, rogues feared 
him; from all parts men came seeking his counsel, 
bringing to him their complaints both of mind and body, 
and their horses to be judged, and their cattle to be 
cured. He was an ignorant man who knew everything, 
a sapient who had never learnt. With cattle he was no 
less than a wizard, divining them in some wondrous fash- 
ion, curing them by rule of thumb in a way almost mi- 
raculous. But he never revealed either himself or his 
methods; he was entirely without pretension; and, pov- 
erty notwithstanding, he never took a fee. Micky the 
Doctor, was his name in those parts — a name that de- 
serves high place in the lists of renown. 

He hobbled across the yard, gave good evening to Hal 


278 


lElSH PASTOKALS 


and Wee James and the neighbours who stood about the 
door, went in and sat down on a stool which had been 
set for him by the wall underneath the harness-rack. 
Before him lay Spotty, heaving and moaning; near by 
stood the Master with folded arms; Hal and Wee James 
were in the doorway, each with a neighbour’s face above 
his shoulder; a lantern hanging on the wall above 
Micky’s head showed Spotty lying in a ring of light 
that faded back and back into the mocking glooms and 
shadows of dusk. 

Micky rested elbows on knees, clasped hands and 
bent forward with his eyes fixed on Spotty; sat hunched 
upon the stool, his back bowed, face stern and intent, 
every fibre of him tense as bowstrings. Crouching 
there in the shadow beneath the lantern he looked some- 
what grotesque, almost uncanny — an Ancient of time, 
you might think, bent forward in the gloom and gazing 
breathlessly into that ring where life wrestled desper- 
ately with death. Like a thing of stone he sat, motion- 
less and grim, with the eyes of all hard upon him; at 
last, ten minutes maybe having gone silently, pursed his 
lips, looked a moment at his hands, then turned to the 
Master. 

How long has she been bad? ” 

The Master said. 

What ha’ ye done for her? ” 

The Master told. 

D’ye know what Eeilly gave her? ” 

No, Micky.” 

^^Is this the first case o’ the kind?” 

It is, Micky.” 


SPOTTY 


279 


know/’ He left the s'ool, crossed and knelt by 
Spotty, laid his hand upon her side, felt her pulse, 
stroked her muzzle, sat back a while on his heels; then, 
gravely shaking his head, rose slowly from the straw. 

Poor ould girl,” said Micky, and at the words Hal 
looked at Wee James in the doorway and the Master 
pursed his lips; poor ould girl. You’re gettin’ it sore, 
me woman — you‘re gettin’ it sore. She’s bad,” he said 
to the Master; she’s bad.” 

Very bad, Micky? ” 

The worst.” 

She’ll die? ” 

She will.” Micky turned for the door, stopped 
near it and looked back. Ye can do little but ease 
her.” He named a soothing draught, and gave a direc- 
tion or two. Mortal man couldn’t save her. She’s 
bad, the crature; och, she’s very bad.” He turned 
again. ^^Ay, childer,” he said, passing the doorway, 

it’s come to her afore her time.” 

Outside stood the Mother, waiting beneath the stars. 

She’s in God’s hands, ma’am,” said Micky and hob- 
bled on. 

The Master came out, went for the pony, helped the 
old man to mount; walked by him along the lane out to 
the road. So you came too late, Micky, after all?” 
he said. 

I dunno — I’m fearin’ — I wouldn’t say.” Micky 
shook his head. Early or late there’s somethin’ yon- 
der — ah, it’s a sore case.” 

The Master looked up. Have you fathomed it, 
Micky?” he asked. 


280 


IRISH PASTORALS 


It’s a sore case/’ came back, after a pause, an’ it’s 
a kind o’ curious .... Good-nigbt. An’ Grod be 
good to ye.” 


. VI 

The neighbours went; one by one the boys fell sleepy 
and tramped up to bed; the Mother closed her book, 
rose, went through the kitchen and out across the yard. 
The night was warm and full of stars, calm and very 
peaceful; only a sound of moaning broke its quietness, 
only a dim glare of light falling out through a doorway 
marred its serenity. Only these. 

Alone beneath the lantern sat the Master, looking 
into that ring of light, arms crossed upon his knees, 
his body bent forward. As the Mother entered he 
looked round. '' Why,” he said, I thought you were 
in bed. Don’t sit up. It’s no use.” He rose. I 
don’t think it can be long now,” he said, looking at the 
ring. It seems very quick.”^ 

Is she suffering much? ” 

Terribly.” 

^^Poor thing!” The Mother’s voice came quiver- 
ing. Oh, poor thing!” She stood silent awhile. 

Can you do nothing? ” 

Nothing at all. I’ve done everything I can think 
of — everything.” 

And you’ll stay with her? ” 

Yes.” 

The Mother turned away. Ah, Spotty, Spotty,” 


SPOTTY 


281 


she murmured. At the door she looked back, saying 
Good-bye you might think; then went on beneath the 
stars across the yard. And the Master and Spotty were 
left alone. 

He sat down again beneath the lantern and bent for- 
ward, elbow on knee, cheek on hand, eyes steady on the 
moaning figure there in the ring of light. His face 
showed gloomy and stern in its setting of shadow; now 
and then he moved a limb, or hid his eyes, or turned to 
look through the doorway; he seemed possessed of much 
patience and great pity. But patience came easily to 
one who so often and so helplessly, night after night 
along the years, had seen the lantern shine on such 
tragedies of patience; and pity he could spare even to a 
trodden worm .... And now it was Spotty. 

At intervals he rose, crossed and held a bucket to her 
nose, scratching her forehead the while and coaxing her 
to drink. More than once he helped her to move, hand- 
ling her with much tenderness. Two or three journeys 
he made to and from the house, going for warm water, 
or physic, or oil for the lantern; came back at last, some- 
time near midnight, with a book, pulled his stool out of 
the shadow and carelessly began turning the leaves. 
Here and there he searched, backwards and forwards, 
searching always in that single book of his for some 
word of light on this darkest of mysteries. What is it? 
he asked of himself. What is it? . . . . His head 
dropped and he fell asleep. 

Outside the world lay sleeping quietly. Nothing 
stirred upon it, no sound came from field or highway; 
the utter silence was awesome out there on the big 


282 


IKISH PASTOKALS 


empty earth beneath the big hollow sky. Everything 
was dead in the world, dead or fast asleep — everything 
but the dumb creature that the stars heard moaning 
through the night. And she happily fell weaker as the 
hours went. 

About one o^clock the book fell softly and woke the 
Master. He looked at the book, at Spotty, at the night; 
rested head on hand and sat staring at the straw. It 
was time, he thought, to give her .... give her .... 

About two o’clock he woke again with a start, rose and 
carried the bucket to Spotty; went out and looked at the 
night, trudged back shivering a little, sat down with his 
back against the wall and set himself steadily to watch. 
She seemed easier, he thought; she looked .... 
looked .... 

Again all was peace in the world. Hardly now did 
that sound of moaning creep out through the doorway. 
Silently the minutes passed. Slowly a greyness crept 
over the hedges, paling the stars. A light sprang in the 
east and waxed softly; the greyness whitened; the 
fields flung off the night; a wind came stirring the 
leaves and waking the birds to song .... and sud- 
denly, like a herald of the dawn, a cock flapped its 
wings lustily and crew. 

The sound woke the Master. He blinked at the flood- 
ing light; looked at Spotty; then started to his feet and 
crossed the straw. Her head was down, her moaning 
ceased; and, even as the Master stooped and the cock 
crew again, she shuddered, gave a long heaving sigh and 
went asleep. 


THE BROTHERS 



I 


I T was in Emo valley, one June morning, that Jan 
Farmer told me this story. We were lying in the 
heather upon a turf -bank; Jan sprawling flat, as 
'his manner was, hands beneath his head, cap over his 
eyes, the whole six feet of him breathing utter laziness. 
A briar pipe lay beside him (for Jan, you must know, 
had sighted manhood) and a book (think of that); he 
wore no coat and no collar and no waistcoat, his breast 
was naked to the sunshine and his arms were bare to the 
elbows; when I talked seriously he laughed, if I jested 
he jibed; sometimes he flung up his legs and shouted 
at the sky, sometimes roared out a stave, or broke into 
raving nonsense, or pelted me with clods, or turned over 
and playfully belaboured me upon the heather .... 
Yes; assuredly was Jan in merry mood that day. Like 
a king he rioted and took his pleasure, tasting of real hap- 
piness I am sure, living life at its best and to the full. 
No burden of thought or care troubled him, no ills of 
mind or body .... just flat in the heather he lay, 
glorying in the sunshine and in the gifts of his youth 
and strength, taking joyfully of the bounties of that 
perfect day. 

In a while there came towards us along the valley a 
woman who carried a child upon her arm and a basket 
in her hand. She was dressed in peasant fashion — cot- 
ton bodice, coarse skirt, heavy boots, white sunbonnet — 
285 


286 


lEISH PASTOEALS 


and she came slowly through the sunshine, trudging 
wearily and soberly. Yet the day was beautiful, 
and the woman looked young, and she had a red ribbon 
about her throat, and I seemed to know her face: so I 
turned to Jan. Who’s that? ” said I. Jan raised his 
head; looked; lay back. Why, don’t you know? 
That’s Annie Trotter,” said he; herself that was once 
Annie Marvin, an’ married Wee James.” I whistled 
softly. Oh,” said I. Indeed .... She’s greatly 
changed.” Jan laughed. Ay,” said he, she is so. 
Times are altered with her since the days she played 
pranks wi’ Harry Thompson. Ah, faith are they! 
She’s tamed, my boy. There’s not much sauce on her 
tongue now. Marryin’ an’ a flock of children have killed 
the tomboy in her. She — she .... Ah, but she was 
the divil,” said Jan, a little bitterly; but she was the 
divil.” I looked at Jan. Yes,” I said, she was a 
dashing blade — once. She tried her arts on more than 
Harry, though, didn’t she?” Again Jan laughed, and 
writhed upon the heather. Ay,” said he; she did 
.... Lord, the game it all was — the dance she led poor 
Harry — the fright she gave myself! If ever will I for- 
get that time .... Man, the spree it was .... 
But sure it was only her woman’s way. She couldn’t 
help herself. Women are born like that. They must 
always be dancin’ after the men, an’ settin’ them by the 
heels, an’ turnin’ the world upside down. They’re 
the divils — they’re the divils,” cried Jan; then paused 
awhile; then sat upright in the heather and went on with 
his story. 


THE BKOTHEUS 


287 


We, Dennis Hayes and oneself (the story is his, 
the words are mine), were on the broad road which 
from the shores of Lough Lamar runs right and straight 
through the outskirts of Cavan, then crosses the border 
and soon is wending for Leek town and the heart of 
Meath. Hitherto, our way had lain through an arid 
country, a place of bleak mountains, scrubby hills, and 
bare cottages scattered sparsely among barren fields: 
now, once in fat Meath, suddenly all was changed. 
From a desert we had passed, as it were, to a land of gar- 
dens. The hedges sprang thick and tall; the hills stood 
round and fruitful, the fields lay lush and soft ; here was 
a fox-cover, there a cluster of giant poplars, far off 
stretched a fir plantation backed by the light blue of a 
mountain and the lighter azure of the horizon: every- 
where, prosperity lay brooding and smiling — on the 
golden orchards, the snug farmhouses, the great wide- 
spreading pastures. 

We were just in the midst of all that; when, suddenly, 
almost in sight of the white walls of Leek, over the 
hedgerow on our left rose the gaunt skeleton of a house. 
Like the wreck of some great amiral it lay, forlorn 
and pitiable, its rafters naked to the sky, its window- 
holes empty and moss-grown, its walls cracked and 
weather-stained; within and without a place of weeds 
and desolation, a home of loneliness and ghosts. Like 
a plague spot it showed on the comeliness of the coun- 
tryside; and seeing it I turned to Dennis. 

What, in Heaven’s name, does it mean?” said 1. 

Is — is it haunted or what? ” 

Without a word, Dennis stepped across the road, 


288 


lEISH PASTOEALS 


mounted the ditch and stood looking over the hedgerow. 
Quickly I followed; and there had sight of the whole 
forlornness of the place. Here was an orchard tangled, 
broken; there a haggard empty and disordered; between 
them lay a garden in riotous ruin, a wilderness of choked 
fruit trees, flaunting weeds, overgrown paths, tumbled 
beehives. The yard was a meadow; the out-houses a 
long misery of broken walls and battered roofs. Not a 
bird stirred in the empty eaves, not a hoof showed itself 
on hill or fleld : right and left, here and there, was only 
loneliness and desolation. 

For a while I stood there looking and wondering; 
then, quite suddenly and discordantly, like the sound of 
a meadow crake breaking through the night, came the 
voice of Dennis. 

It gets worse an’ worse,” said he, with a slow wag 
of the head; worse an’ worse. Last time I came these 
parts ’twas only an eyesore: now it’s like some deserted 
graveyard or other. Ay. It's miserable to cast eyes on 
it. It’s like something you’d dream about. An’, man, 
the pity it is ! The flne place it was once, the flne pros- 
perous place; the best house in all Meath, an’ the best 
land from here to back again. Yes, sir. An’ now look 
at it ... . An’ all through a woman,” said Dennis 
and cut viciously at the hedge with his stick; all 
through a woman.” 

^^A woman?” said I, looking round. ^^A woman, 
you said, Dennis?” 

‘‘ Ay,” returned he. What’s it ... . But don’t 
ye know? ” asked he, with a half turn of his head. Ye 
don’t? Then where, in glory’s name, were ye? Abroad, 


THE BKOTHERS 


289 


is it? Aw, yes, indeed. Abroad where they live in 
their ignorance, an’ want to know nothin’, an’ never see 
a paper .... Well, come away an’ I’ll tell ye,” said 
he; then left the ditch, took again to the road, in a 
while clambered over an iron gate and led the way along 
a track which ran through the fields and down a slope 
that lay below the ruined house. The best land in 
Ireland,” moaned Dennis as he went, hands beneath his 
coat-tails, eyes roaming far and near; an’ it gone to 
the divil. Look at it! Think o’ the fiocks and herds, 
that ought to be sportin’ through all them fields .... 
An’ not one there is: not one. An’ not a soul is there 
to be seen. An’ hardly a foot ever stirs the dew. An’ 
why? ye ask. Well, just for this: That there’s a curse 
on it; an’ there’s blood on it; an’ there’s a ghost in it 
.... But wait,” said Dennis, with a wave of his arm. 

Leave that for a while.” 

At foot of the slope we came to a stream, just then 
somewhat shallow but steep and high in its banks, that 
ran pleasantly towards the road (being crossed there by 
a single-arched stone bridge) and came bickering mer- 
rily past the meadows and poplars and willow-clumps 
along the valley. Towards this from the house a path 
came down, reached a foot-plank that stretched from 
bank to bank, and went on, as it were, past a hazel 
thicket and up a slope on the further side. The plank 
was broad and stout, and worn somewhat in the middle; 
it we passed easily, Dennis crossing himself devoutly 
the while, and near it sat down in the grass with our 
feet dangling over the water. 

All was very peaceful just there, in that golden after- 


290 


lEISH PASTORALS 


noon; just a voice at intervals from the road and the 
fields beyond it, a soft babble from the stream, the hum 
of gnats and the twitter of birds, over all the serenity of 
a summer sky. 

Dennis lit his pipe; leant elbows on knees, crossed his 
arms and looked at the foot-plank. 

Ay,’’ said he, that’s the place. Who’d think, 
lookin’ at it now, that sunshiny an’ innocent it looks, that 
ever such things could ha’ happened? Ah, it’s wonder- 
ful the ways o’ the world, an’ the way it changes .... 
An’ there’s the trees it was tied to ; an’ there’s the clump 
he lay hid in; an’ there’s where he fell; an’ there’s where 
she .... If ever mind. Wait till I come to it,” said 
Dennis sitting upright; then took two or three quick 
puffs and went on. 

It’s wonderful to the world,” said Dennis, in that 
sententious way he had at times, the difference there 
is in people. I often think of it. There’s a whole mile 
between every man woman an’ child in every townland; 
an’ there’s from here to Mullingar between every two na- 
tions. Ay, there is that. You’re yourself, an’ I’m 
mine, an’ t’other chap has his own grip o’ things; an’ 
there’s more than the sea (for that God be thanked!) 
keepin’ England from Ireland. Take us as ye like; 
in farmin’, in ways o’ lookin’ at things, in our talk, an’ 
our songs, an our habits; we’re just as much like the 
English these parts as a turnip’s like a carrot. Ay, we 
are ; an’ I’ll bring ye a proof by pointin’ to the house up 
there an’ tellin’ about the men that used to own it. 
What happened to them would never ha’ happened to 
one of ourselves; the way they lived, an’ spoke, an’ 


THE BROTHEES 


291 


dressed, an’ carried on wasn’t our way; an’ if you’d meet 
them out there on the road, you’d turn an’ look at them, 
an’ say to yourself that the blood in them was as for- 
eign as a Chinaman’s. Ye would so ... . an’ you’d 
be right. 

’Twas far back, years an’ years ago, that the father 
o’ them came to Meath, an’ took the land you’re sittin’ 
on, an’ settled down in the big house above, an’ gave us 
all a squint at his English ways. He was a big, hard- 
headed, clever man; a grand farmer an’ manager; open 
enough in the hand, a magistrate too, an’ as well liked 
as the kind of him ever gets the chance to be ... . 
The wife died young; one o’ the daughters went after 
her; t’other married a Dublin doctor an’s there yet; an’ 
when at last th’ ould man went his ways, the two sons 
stepped into his shoes an’ set themselves to carry 
things on. 

It’s the sons I’m to tell ye about. Th’ ouldest was 
a decent chap — Harry, they called him — big, hearty, 
good-lookin’, free wi’ his money an’ his drink, an’ with 
the best eye in the world for the points of a horse. 
Man, but he was the boy could ride, an’ shoot, an’ make 
the fat rise on a beast; an’ in fair or market he was as 
good at a bargain as he was broad in the back. We 
liked Harry well these parts; ay, we did. He had al- 
ways a good word for one, an’ a laugh, an’ a joke. If 
ye wanted advice he’d give it; if a beast was sick he’d 
glory in curin’ it; he’d lend ye anythin’ he had from a 
plough to a hatchet; an’ no man ever went from his door 
wu’ a slack waistcoat. But t’other — that’s Ned — wasn’t 
like that; aw, divil a bit, He was middle-sized an’ dark. 


292 


lEISH PASTORALS 


an’ thin o’ the face, an’ none too free wi’ his money or 
^ his company; he’d owe a grudge against his own father 
an’ keep it till he paid it, an’ he had a temper, a black- 
blooded ugly temper, that came surely to him from some 
ould Saxon cut-throat. Ay, he was dark, was Ned. 
You’d never know how to take him. He couldn’t look 
ye straight in the face. He never went to a hunt, or 
played cards, or stood ye a drink, or tried to make him- 
self agreeable; he’d walk a mile wi’ ye an’ never open his 
lips, an’ hardly ever did a laugh rattle in his throat 
.... An’ yet there was good in him,” said Dennis, 
and looked thoughtfully at his boots. Aw, sure there 
was .... Only ’twas a day’s journey to find it. 

Well, sir, the two o’ them buries the father, gives 
him an’ the mother a fine tombstone wi’ railin’s round it 
beyond in Moy graveyard, an’ settles down in the big 
house above. They had room enough, Lord knows, with 
all them rooms an’ halls an’ passages, an’ work enough 
in all them fields; an’ for a while things went swimmin’ 
with them. They were what you’d call gentlemen farm- 
ers: these kind that believe in workin’ with their eyes 
an’ wits an’ keepin’ their hands in their pockets. You’d 
never find one o’ them at the tail of a plough, or bondin’ 
a hay-fork across his knee, or sittin’ down to his dinner 
at the back of a ditch. Aw, no. That wasn’t their 
English way. They knew better than that. ’Twas out 
o’ bed at day-break an’ away through the fields an’ the 
dew; ’twas back to their breakfast at six an’ out again 
to set the men to their work; then ’twa^ saddle a horse 
an’ away with Harry over the land, roamin’ up an’ down, 
here an’ there — an’ out after him’d go Ned, a gun on his 


THE BEOTHEES 


293 


arm, a dog at his heels, an’ not man nor mortial wi’ the 
ghost of a notion where he was goin’. No, sir; no man 
could fathom Ned. You’d see Harry on the horse a mile 
away, an’ you’d know his whereabouts by the laugh an’ 
whistle of him; but Ned’d come upon ye as sudden as a 
cat on the stairs, an’ him wi’ his eyes down an’ them 
burnin’ holes in everything he’d see. Nothing’d escape 
him; an’ God help the man he found wastin’ a minute. 
He’d hardly give ye time to light your pipe; an’ if so 
be you’d anger him he’d flare out at ye wi’ English oaths 
that’d make ye gasp like a dyin’ flsh .... But set 
a woman in Ned’s way, be she lady or beggarwoman, an’ 
he’d be as soft in the tongue an’ bright in the eye as a 
draper tryin’ to sell ye a suit o’ clothes. Yes; women 
were Ned’s weakness. He liked them, an’ he said he 
did, an’ he told them so; an’ sure, bein’ what they are, 
they listened to his bleather, an’ liked him too .... 
Anyway, one did, an’ it’s no matter about the rest; an’ 
it’s about herself I’d now be tellin’ ye.” 

Dennis knocked the ashes from his pipe, slowly re- 
fllled and lit it; then lay back on his elbow, crossed his 
legs, and looking at the foot-plank went on. 

‘‘ She was the daughter of one J ames Long, a gentle- 
man farmer himself and a big man in his way, that lives 
a mile or so beyond the road there t’other side of the 
railway. She had money at her back, was an only 
daughter; an’ for the rest was a tight bouncin’ lump of 
a lassie, wi’ her share o’ good looks an’ ways, but, as far 
as ever I could see, a bit too flne in the bone an’ soft in 
the manners for your farmer’s wife. Set her down at 
the piano, or put her on a horse, or sit her in a big arm- 


294 


IKISH PASTORALS 


chair wi’ a story book in her hand, an’ she was in her 
glory; but give her a big churnin’ o’ butter to make, or 
a row o’ cows to milk, or ask her to lend a hand at the 
hay when work was throng, an’ where was she? Phat! 
She was worse than useless; she’d muddle things, be in 
the way, be afraid o’ soilin’ her hands. She was the 
kind o’ female I have no likin’ for,” said Dennis. Her 
an’ her likes ought to be put in armchairs an’ fed with 
spoon meat. What I like to see in a woman is good- 
temper, good willin’ hands on her, a taste for the kitchen 
an’ the pots an’ pans; just that an’ a good share o’ health. 
Good looks,” said Dennis with a snort. White hands, 
an’ curls an’ fal-lals, an’ the ways of a lady! Phat! 
Thinkin’ o’ them disgusts me.” And Dennis shot up- 
right, set his lips and glared like Brian Boru. 

Howsomever, all that’s as may be,” he continued, in 
a while; an’ just now one or another’s little matter. 
So long as women are women an’ men fools, so long 
I suppose will your doll’s face be like a candle for the 
moths. Ay, it will .... an’ so it was wi’ Long’s daugh- 
ter. The country went wild after her. You’d think 
’twas the Queen o’ Sheba had come to life again. Wher- 
ever ye went ’twas Letty Long this, an’ Letty Long that, 
till ye were sick o’ the name of her. You’d think she 
was the only woman in the countryside. ^ Good-night,’ 
you’d say to some young fellow or another you’d meet. 
^ Good night,’ he’d answer, an’ shuffle on. ^ Aren’t ye 
cornin’ my way? ’ you’d say at that. ^Aw, no,’ he’d 
answer over his shoulder. ^ Pm — Pm .... Good 
night to ye, Dennis ’ ; an’ off he’d march to Long’s. 
An’ the next man you’d meet’d be goin’ to Long’s — an’ 


THE BROTHEES 


295 


the next — till, ’pon me davy, you’d begin to wonder 
where in glory they found room round the hearthstone 
for all the fools. Ach, ’twas sickenin’. I have no pa- 
tience wi’ such foolery .... An’ there among them 
Miss Letty’d sit, makin’ eyes at this one, an’ eyes at that, 
an’ she in her fal-lals an’ flounces; an’ there the gom- 
erils’d sit worshippin’ her, an’ glowerin’ at one another, 
an’ ready to cut throats for her sake. Ach, ’twas sick- 
enin’ .... An’ withal not a Anger Letty’d raise in 
favour o’ one more than t’other — not a Anger, till one 
night who walks in an’ sits him down but my darlint 
Ned Smith. An’ then was the scatterment. Then was 
the whillaloo through the countryside. It was just as 
if a hawk had dropped among the chickens. Everywhere 
ye went the jabber was in your ears. ^ Ha’ ye heard the 
news? ’ this one’d say an’ take ye by the collar. ^ Ha’ 
ye heard about Ned Smith an’ — ’ ^ Ach, g’luck,’ you’d 

answer an’ break away; an’ there before you’d be 
another man wi’ the same story; an’ when you’d get 
home sure your ears were tired bearin’ o’ the way Ned 
had scattered t’other fellows, an’ the flne, genteel Eng- 
lish fashion he had o’ courtin’, an’ the way he’d read 
to Letty from books, an’ take her for walks in the or- 
chard, an’ the things he was buyin’ for her — brooches, 
an’ hats, an’ gloves — an’ the glee Letty herself was in, 
an’ the big spirits the father was in at seein’ such a flne, 
moneyed, decent boy sittin’ by his fireside: sure one’s 
ears were tired of it all, I tell ye, sick an’ tired of it. 
Who wants to hear o’ ^uch foolery? Who but a for- 
eigner’d go courtin’ in such fashion? Couldn’t he ha’ 
stuck his toes in the ashes like another, an’ made his 


296 


IKISH PASTOEALS 


kaley, an’ stole an odd kiss if he wanted it now an’ then, 
instead o’ ... . Ach,” cried Dennis, I can’t spake 
o’ such lunacy. It’s beyond me. There’s more time 
wasted these parts runnin’ after women than’d do to 
plough the countryside twice over: but when it comes 
to your English way o’ courtin’ I’m only fit for cursin’. 
The foolishness of it ... . An’ Ned Smith, too; 
Black Ned! Sure, in a way, ’twas only pure charity 
when, one day, Harry casts eyes on Letty, goes to see the 
father, takes to visitin’ at Long’s, an’ sets himself to 
rival the brother. ’Twas so ... . But sure — but 
sure ’twas foolish maybe after all. Ah, it was. Think 
o’ what came of it,” said Dennis, and dolefully wagged 
his head. Look round ye an’ see what came of it. 
Look at the bare rafters up there, an’ the tumbled offices, 
an’ the bare fields : an’ all because one day Harry Smith 
casts eyes on a woman an’ sets himself to rival the 
brother. Isn’t it powerful to the world the strange way 
things are managed in it? Isn’t it woeful curious that 
women can do such things, an’ men be such fools? An’ 
doesn’t it strike ye as curious, too, when ye consider all 
the females that’s scattered over a countryside, that 
two brothers must cast their eyes on the same woman, 
an’ fall to courtin’ her, an’ fall to treatin’ other as if 
they were strangers — ay, an’ worse than strangers? 
Eh,” asked Dennis; ‘‘ what’d ye think yourself? ” 

I think with you, Dennis,” said I. It is curious 
— perhaps a little more than that.” 

^^Ay,” said Dennis. Well, we’ll leave it there 
then, for there’s no use in talkin’. Maybe ’twas Provi- 
dence ordered things; maybe ’twas only chance sent 


THE BEOTHEKS 


297 


Harry to Long’s; maybe ’twas tbe divil himself; anyway, 
he came, an’ that’s enough, an’ that was the beginnin’ 
o’ sport. 

Talk? The country was buzzin’ with it inside a 
week. ^ Sure the queerest thing it is,’ ye heard from 
every one ; ^ the strangest thing in the world. Think 
o’ the two Smiths after the one girl — think o’ one 
brother tryin’ to oust t’other — think o’ me darlint Letty 
sittin’ yonder wi’ glowerin’ Ned this side of her an’ 
laughin’ Harry t’other side, an’ them as keen to outdo 
one another as if they were biddin’ for the same horse 
at a fair. An’ listen,’ they’d say to ye an’ look at ye 
that knowin’, ^ there’ll be sport afore all’s over, an’ 
there’ll be murder as sure as Heaven’s above ye, if so 
be Harry wins. There will, I tell ye. An’ listen: It’ll 
not be Harry that’ll give the blow, an’ it’ll not be Ned 
that’ll win. Is it Ned Smith win, black-faced Ned? 
Ah, not at all; not at all .... But wait! There’ll be 
sport as sure as the sun’s shinin’, or the divil isn’t sittin’ 
in Ned Smith’s eyes.’ 

That was how people talked; an’ maybe they had 
cause, for wasn’t the whole play-actin’ goin’ on there 
before their eyes. Couldn’t they see Ned steppin’ off 
after dusk — an’ him bound for Long’s? Couldn’t 
they hear the tramp o’ Harry’s horse most evenin’s — 
an’ it off for Long’s? Couldn’t this one see this 
for himself, an’ that one that: an’, for yourself, 
hadn’t ye only to meet Ned any evenin’ an’ look in his 
face to see trouble in his eyes? Ah, to be sure .... 
An’, Lord knows, ’twas hard not to pity him. For what 
chance had he against Harry from the very first day? 


298 


lEISH PASTOKALS 


Chance ! About as much as a terrier has against a bull- 
dog. Chance ! He had none. Is it against big, 
hearty, good-natured, good-lookin’ Harry; an’ him the 
eldest; an’ him a magistrate; an’ him the finest match 
from top to toe that stepped in county Meath? Chut. 
It’s ridiculous to think of it. A blind woman’d choose 
Harry from a houseful o’ l^eds. She had only to hear 
him laugh, or lay her hand on his shoulder, or sit lis- 
tenin’ to him one night by the fire, an’ the thing was 
done. Ay, done. An’ Letty wasn’t blind, nor the 
father, nor one of his kind. Ah, ’deed they weren’t. 
They knew how many ha’pence made a penny, an’ how to 
cut a meadow when the sky was blue; an’ so it happened 
just as everyone expected, for one day word came that 
Ned was out on the step, an’ Harry inside in the hall, 
an’ Letty at Harry’s side an’ the fox of a father blessin’ 
them .... An’ God knows, for myself, I pitied the 
poor divil of a Ned; for he had his good points, an’ was 
first in the field, an’ the brother did the mean thing an’ 
the unnatural to come steppin’ between him an’ his girl. 
’Twas the chances o’ war, I know: still, God knows, I 
pitied the white face o’ him first time I met him after his 
downfall. I did,” said Dennis. God knows, I did. 

He took it ill, as bad as man ever did; not 
in an open, blusterin’, dang your eyes kind o’ 
way — the way, you’ll understand, men take such 
things in these parts — but just as if you’d bled 
the blood from him, or killed the heart in him, 
or cut him with insults to the very quick. The 
day ould Long refused him Letty, he just rose from his 
chair, took his hat, an’ wi’ his face like ashes walked out 


THE BEOTHEKS 


299 


wi^out a word, an’ turned for home. An’ that night he 
didn’t speak, nor the next day, an’ hardly a word for 
weeks an’ weeks; an’ when Harry comes to him wi’ his 
hand out, an’ the cheerful word on his tongue, an’ him 
askin’ for forgiveness, Ned just shivered in his boots, 
wheeled round, an’ marched off to the fields. Nothin’d 
make him laugh. He shunned everyone. The only 
thing he’d speak to or look at was the dog. If Harry 
met him, he’d turn his head an’ pass; if he’d speak, Ned’d 
nod an’ tighten the lips. He had his meals by himself. 
He went about like a ghost, his head down, his hands 
behind him, an’ his eyes burnin’ .... An’, God 
knows, I pitied him. He was foolish an’ hard to under- 
stand, an’ sure no woman ever born was worth such 
sufferin’ : for all that I was sorry for the boy, an’ there 
wasn’t a woman in the county but cried bitter tears 
for him, an’ not a man but was angry with Harry in his 
heart. But if ye spoke to Harry — an’ some of us did 
too — he’d only laugh at ye; an’ if ye dared pity Ned 
he’d stare at ye ... . An’ so things went on. 

’Twas a great weddin’ — the finest thing o’ the kind 
I ever set eyes on. People came from all parts to it, 
from Dublin, the North, sorrow knows where. There 
were as many carriages, with prancin’ horses, an’ the 
drivers sportin’ bookays in their coats, as you’d see at the 
funeral of a landlord. Outside the church, was a crowd 
as big as if ’twas election day. An’ there was herself 
all muslin an’ flowers; an’ there was Harry in his coat 
wi’- skirts to it; an’ there were the beautiful brides- 
maids, an’ the ould father in his white hat, an’ the 
friends in their Sunday best — aw, an odious fine 


300 


IKISH PASTOEALS 


gatherin’ entirely .... But there was no Ned, not 
a sight of him; an’ we all nudged other at that. 
^ Where’s Ned? ’ we’d say, wi’ our eyes on the car- 
riages; ^where’s Ned?’ An’ the women’d wipe their 
eyes an’ say: ^ Ah, the poor crature; the poor, unfor- 
tunate crature ! ’ An’ if some of us muttered a word of 
a curse, may God who knows what happened afterwards 
forgive us. Sure it must ha’ been hard on the boy; it 
must. To wake up an’ think, ^ She’ll be married the day’ ; 
to see Harry steppin’ off in his grandeur an’ know where 
he was goin’; to look at his watch an’ think, ^ She’s 
marryin’ now ’ ; to sit up yonder in his room an’ know 
that the knives an’ forks were clatterin’ in Long’s par- 
lour, an’ the corks poppin’, an’ everyone laughin’ an’ 
speechyf yin’ ; to hear, at last, the carriage come back, 
an’ Harry runnin’ up the stairs an’ knockin’ at the door, 
an’ then Letty the wife knockin’ an’ sayin’, ^ Ned, Ned, 
won’t ye speak to me? Won’t ye wish us well? ’ — an’ 
him to sit there an’ never answer or stir; then, in the 
end, to look out o’ the window an’ see them drivin’ off to 
the honeymoon — sure, aw, sure, for a man like Ned to 
have to pass such a day, must ha’ been purgatory itself. 
It must .... The foolish boy. An’ yet, God knows, 
when I heard all I pitied him. Ah, I did. 

^‘Anyway, the weddin’ passed, an’ the honeymoon; an’ 
then one day home comes Letty as Mrs. Smith an’ settles 
down as mistress in the big house. She did it well; car- 
ried the thing off, they say, as if she was English born 
and used all her life to grandeur; went laughin’ an’ 
singin’ about the house, made herself agreeable to the 
servants an’ everyone — ay, to everyone but Ned. No; 


THE BROTHEKS 


301 


she couldn’t charm Ned, for he wouldn’t come near her. 
If she’d step into a room when he was there he’d walk 
out; if he met her outside he’d raise his hat and pass on; 
when meals were ready he’d stay away: an’ do what 
Harry might he couldn’t get Ned to forgive him or make 
it up wi’ the wife. No. It was just wi’ Ned as if Letty 
wasn’t there at all, or the brother had disgraced the 
name by marryin’ a beggarwoman. He’d recognise her 
in no form or fashion. He’d have no dealin’s wi’ Harry 
more than if he was the common hangman. ’Twas the 
talk o’ the country. ^ Think o’ the wasp’s nest that’s 
above in the big house,’ we used to say. ^ What, in 
glory’s name, ’ll come of it all? ’ we’d ask. ^ What’ll 
Harry do? What’s brewin’ back there behind Ned’s 
eyes? How can Letty stand such a life?’ we’d ask 
.... and then, just like that,” said Dennis with a clap 
of his hands, comes word that Letty’d settled it all: just 
stepped up to Ned, one day, put her hands on his shoul- 
ders, looked in his eyes, said a word or two — an’ the 
thing was done .... Ay, the thing was done. Ned 
was changed. Him an’ Letty were friends at last. 
’Twas curious,” said Dennis; mighty curious. But 
sure .... Ah, what’s the good o’ talkin’ ? ” said Den- 
nis. Who can understand the ways o’ women? Who 
can fathom the foolishness o’ men? An’ what’s the 
meanin’, I’d ask ye, o’ bein’ friends wi’ the wife an’ 
t’other thing wi’ the husband — an’ him your own 
brother? Eh? What’s the meanin’ of it? I’d ask ye. 

Anyway, after that things settled down. People 
turned their eyes to their own affairs — maybe ’twas time, 
too — an’ let the Smiths alone. Everything seemed 


302 


lEISII PASTOKALS 


goin’ well at the big house. An odd word o’ scandal 
ye heard now an’ then : but sure that’s of no account in 
a countryside. Ye met Harry in fair or. market, an’ 
he was much the same — maybe a wee thing too fat, an’ 
red in the face, an’worried lookin’ at times — but nothin’ 
to make ye pass a remark. Ye had sight o’ Letty drivin’ 
to church, or the father’s, an’ she was just as well- 
dressed, an’ good-lookin’, an’ genteel as ever. If ye met 
Yed on the road, an’ looked hard at him, an’ passed the 
time o’ day, you’d say to yourself: ^ Well, good luck to 
ye, Hed Smith, but it’s well you’ve got over your 
troubles considerin’ all the capers ye cut.’ The serv- 
ants an’ one an’ another about the house gave out that 
husband an’ wife were good friends enough (as good as 
you’d expect any man an’ woman to be after a month or 
so), an’ Ned an’ the wife on the best o’ terms, an’ the 
brothers themselves as civil in their ways as could be 
expected. Everything, to all appearance, was goin’ on 
as smooth as milk; when, just as sudden as the wind 
risin’ at sunset, comes word that Ned an’ Harry had 
quarrelled one night, an’ fought like divils, an’ called 
other all the names in the dictionary, an’ smashed nearly 
all the chairs in the room, an’ were only kept from 
black murder by Letty herself. ^ Ho, ho,’ says we at 
that; ^ who says now that Ned’s forgiven the brother? 
An’ what,’ says one here an’ there, wi’ a wink, ^ was 
Letty doin’ in the ruction? Eh? Tell me,’ they’d say, 
an’ wink again; ^ d’ye think it was about herself they’d 
be squabblin’? Eh?’ .... An’ before we could 
scratch our ears for an answer, word comes that Ned had 
packed his trunk, shook his feet at Harry, took his 


THE BROTHEKS 


303 


ticket at Moy, an’ gone off to England on his travels. 
^An’ a good thing too/ says some o’ ns; ^ an’ may he 
never come back.’ ^ An’ what’d Letty do then?’ says 
the rest of ns an’ grinned. ^Ah, wait an’ see; wait an’ 
see.’ An’ we waited. 

He was gone a year an’ a while; an’ when he came 
back — an’ God knows, I often wonder in myself what 
divil sent him — things were changed a trifle in the honse 
above. A child had come, for one thing. Letty had 
got well nsed to married ways, for another; an’, as wom- 
en will, had learnt maybe that there’s a bitter side to 
the skin of a plum. Harry, too, had settled down in his 
shoes and taken to curious ways — drinkin’ more than he 
wanted, card playin’ o’ nights at the neighbours’, givin’ 
one the notion he was fonder o’ the next man’s hearth- 
stone than his own. People said, too, that there were 
squabbles between them, an’ bad looks, an’ bad temper; 
an’ more than one said ’twas Letty that asked Ned to 
come back .... but of all that I know nothin’. All 
Pd swear to is this: that when Ned came back from his 
travels he had plenty o’ chance to carry on his divil- 
ments; an’ that he took his chance; an’ that before six 
weeks were past the whole country was buzzin’ like a 
beehive wi’ scandal, an’ jabber, an’ hints, an’ the sorrow 
knows what. ^ Ha’ ye heard about the Smiths? ’ was the 
word everywhere; ‘ about Harry neglectin’ the wife, an’ 
Ned takin’ up wi’ her, an’ them always singin’ an’ 
laughin’ an’ talkin’ together, an’ him always lookin’ at 
her . . . .’ Ach, what’s the good o’ goin’ through it 
all? ” cried Dennis, irritably. Who can tell the truth 
about things? Who but themselves knew what passed 


304 


lEISH PASTOKALS 


between them? Who knows which o’ them was to 
blame? Who knows whether ’twas the onld grudge 
against the brother, or the new feelin’s for the wife, that 
tempted Ned? An’ who but the Almighty knows the 
whole truth o’ what passed between them on that last 
night of all; the night I’m now goin’ to tell ye about? 
No child o’ man knows, anyway. It’s folly to be 
guessin’. If I talked all night I might just be as far 
from the truth as ever. It’s unknowable; ” said Dennis, 
with a shake of his head; it’s unknowable. 

Harry was out as usual,” Dennis went on quickly, 
an’ the two it seems were up in the parlour singin’ an’ 
passin’ the time. After a while, it appears, they fell 
quiet; then Ned’s voice was heard ravin’ an’ rantin’ in 
an unnatural kind o’ way, an’ Letty’s askin’ him for 
God’s sake to be quiet, an’ for God’s sake to leave her 
alone. But Ned, it appears, kept on; an’ Letty takes 
to sobbin’, then all of a sudden calls out, ^ No, no, no, 
Ned; don’t go, Ned; don’t go ’ — an’ with that the door 
opens, Ned comes out, an’ down the hall, an’ out 
through the kitchen into the yard. An’ after him, in- 
side a minute, comes Letty; only she takes a shawl, 
wraps it round her head, turns through the front door, 
an’ as fast as she could go comes straight down the hill 
there in front of us ... . 

I’ve often sat me down just where I’m sittin’ now,” 
Dennis went on, an’ shut my eyes an’ seen it all as 
plain as if I’d been watchin’ it. You’ll imagine a dark 
night, in early spring, after a time o’ heavy rains. The 
stream there is full to the brim, an’ runnin’ like a mill 
race; the trees are as bare as scaffold poles; the grass is 


THE BEOTHEES 


305 


short and slippery; there’s a mist lyin’ all along the val- 
ley here, an’ there’s not a sound or a stir more than if 
the world was empty. Now, lift your eyes an’ you’ll see 
Letty cornin’ down the hill, wi’ the shawl over her head, 
an’ her pantin’ an’ slippin’ an’ all frightened like — 
cornin’ on to the plank there, crossin’ it in her timid 
woman’s way, an’ passin’ on through the fields at your 
back. Ye wait a while, wonderin’ where she’s goin’; 
then raise your eyes again an’ see Ned cornin’ in her 
steps, his face like a divil’s, a lantern in one hand an’ 
a rope in the other. He comes on, an’ on, an’ on; crosses 
the plank too; sets the lantern on the bank there just 
about where your sittin’ ; looks here an’ there about him, 
listens for a while, then lights the lantern an’ quick an’ 
sudden begins unwindin’ the rope from his arm .... 
Am I tollin’ it right?” asked Dennis. Can ye see 
it all? ” 

Clearly,” answered I. But go on, my son; 
go on.” 

Well, sir, he takes one end o’ the rope an’ ties it 
low down an’ tight to the tree over there beyond the 
plank; then comes this side o’ the plank an’ winds 
t’other end round the foot o’ that tree, pulls on it hard 
an’ knots it — an’ there’s the rope stretched taut about 
six inches from the ground just over the end o’ the 
plank .... Can ye see it? Ye can. Well, now can 
ye imagine the divil’s capers he’s after? . • • • Ye 
can’t. Well, look hard at the rope, an’ then imagine 
yourself to be Harry cornin’ home in the dark, your 
hands in your pockets, a drop o’ drink in your stomach, 
an’ you catchin’ your toe in somethin’ just as ye made 


306 


lEISH PASTOEALS 


to step on tlie plank .... Eh? Ye understand now? 
It’s kind o’ shivery to think of, isn’t it? Ah, my God, 
but it is! Man, but I’ve been through it often — but 
I’ve been through it often .... An’ there’s Ned 
standin’ lookin’ at it wi’ a grin on his divil’s face. Ah, 
what possessed him that night? How could he even 
come to think o’ such a thing? His own flesh an’ blood 
— his brother — his own brother Harry! Was it the 
ould grudge against him that had been growin’ darker 
an’ stronger all those months; or was it a sudden mad- 
ness o’ the brain; or did Satan tempt him; or was it all 
because o’ Letty, the old feelin’s for her, an’ the new, 
an’ the regard he had for her? What was it? Ah, 
sir, sir! Who knows? Who knows? It’s beyond 
me. It’s unknowable .... 

^^But, no matter now; no matter now; let’s get it 
over, for God’s sake! Sit ye back now, I’d ask ye, an’ 
clear the way for Harry. But keep your eye on Ned. 
Look. He puts his foot on the rope an’ tries it; smiles 
to himself; lifts the lantern an’ blows it out; then walks 
conny to the hazel-clump over there, jouks down an’ 
sets himself to wait like a spider in the corner of his web. 
Whisht. Ye can nearly hear him breathin’. Ah, the 
divil, the divil! He waits, an’ waits. Ah, the divil! 
Whisht. There’s a step behind us. Ah, Lord, Lord! 
It comes nearer an’ nearer .... now it’s close to us 
.... now it’s on the bank .... now it’s at the 
plank .... now — Ah, Lord, Lord! There’s a 
stumble — a slip — a cry — a plunge an’ a splash — another 
cry — an’ all’s over .... All’s over, sir,” moaned 
Dennis ; then took off his hat, devoutly crossed himself. 


THE BEOTHERS 


307 


mopped his brow and silently sat looking down upon the 
water — the water that now ran so peacefully. 

Go on, Dennis/’ said I in a while. Finish, 
my son.” 

Eh? ” said he, turning. What’s that? Ah, yes — 
I’ll finish — give me breath — I’ll finish .... After 
that there must ha’ passed a good while before himself 
over there stirred in the hazel-clump: but at last he 
comes steppin’ out, looks here an’ there, creeps over to 
the bank, an’ stands listenin’ an’ listenin’. But he hears 
nothin’. Ah, no. Not a whimper; not a splash. He 
walks along the bank towards the bridge, peepin’ here 
an’ there through the willows ; then comes back hurryin’, 
lights the lantern again, puts it near the rope an’ begins 
untyin’ the knot. He fumbles, for his hands are trem- 
blin’. Maybe he swears an oath; maybe he — But 
whisht. Is that a foot? He turns his head an’ listens. 
Whisht. It is a foot. He twists round with his back 
to the lantern; someone shouts; he jumps as if a shot 
had hit him .... and there’s Harry. Yes; Harry 
himself .... Wait now. Hear me out. I’m 
nearly done. Not a word can Ned say. Just like a 
post he stands there, not a move on him, an’ the eyes 
starin’ in his head. Harry walks up to him. 

^ Well, Ned,’ says he, or words like that. ^ You’ll 
be out late? ’ 

But Ned stands speechless. 

^ Were ye waitin’ for me, Ned? ’ Harry goes on, or 
words like that. ^ Someone told me ye might have 
somethin’ to say to me on my way home.’ 

Not a word from Ned. 


308 


lElSH PASTOKALS 


‘ What d’ye want wi’ the lantern, Ned? ’ asks 
Harry; an’ looks down, an’ catches sight o’ the rope. He 
stoops an’ pulls at it; then raises himself an’ looks Ned 
in the eyes. ^ Ah, ye divil ye,’ says he; ^ this is what 
you’d be after. This is what you’ve been keepin’ in 
store for me. Ah, my God, that it should come to this ! 
You — you! This is what you’d be doin’,’ says Harry. 
^ This is what she came to warn me about. She knew ye; 
she guessed . . . .’ An’ at the word Ned speaks. 

‘ She,’ he shouts. ^ She! Who — who — who? ’ 
^^An for answer Harry stands back an’ hits Ned full 
in the forehead, an’ stretches him along the bank there 
at your feet; then steps across the rope, along the plank, 
an’ away uphill home to find the wife .... But he 
didn’t find her. Ah, no. Not for hours did he find 
her; an’ then ’twas lyin’ in the river there with her 
clothes tangled in a branch .... Ah, dear Lord; 
dear Lord! ” 

Dennis rose, stretched himself; began tapping his pipe 
on the palm of his hand. So now you’ll be knowin’,” 

he continued, why it comes that the house above ” 

I rose also and took Dennis by the arm. Easy, Den- 
nis,” said I; easy, my son. Tell me all. Had she 
been to warn Harry? ” 

Ah, to be sure she had — to be sure. She must ha’ 
suspected Ned of his divilments; maybe she knew; 
maybe she didn’t. Who knows? Anyway, she did her 
best: ah, God help her, she did! ” 

And Ned? ” said I. 

He got over it,” answered Dennis, in a kind of a 
way. He lay on his back, ravin’ an’ jumpin’, for weeks 


THE BEOTHEES 


309 


an^ weeks; an’ when the fit passed he was only a wreck — 
no memory an’ little wits. Maybe ’twas God’s mercy; 
maybe ’twas a kind o’ punishment. Anyway, that was 
the end o’ Ned. An’ here’s the end of it all,” said Den- 
nis, pointing towards the house and looking round the 
fields; ^^ruin an’ desolation — ruin an’ desolation. Ah, 
sir, to think of it all. The fine place it was once. An’ 
now; an’ now .... Why? ye ask. Heaven above, 
haven’t I told ye! Isn’t there blood on it — an’ a curse? 
Didn’t Harry throw up the land before six months, an’ 
take Ned off to England? Didn’t the next man keep it 
less than a year, an’ lose half his cattle with a murrain, 
an’ half his crop in a tempest? Didn’t the next man 
break his neck at a hunt; an’ the man after him lose a 
child in that very river, an’ have to do his own labour 
for want of man or woman to help him? An’, for the 
rest, doesn’t the ghost of herself — God be with her — go 
flittin’ about here at night, up an’ down, up an’ down 
. . . . Ah, come away,” cried Dennis; come away. 
It makes me sweat to think of it.” 

Jan finished; sat a while looking at the heather; 
looked round. “It’s a lively kind o’ yarn, isn’t it?” 
said he. 

“ It is,” answered I. “And you blame the woman? ” 

“I do,” said Jan, rising. “Don’t you?” 

And to that I dared not answer. As Dennis said: 
God knows. 


THE END 
















